vJ 


Goethe 
on  the  Theater 


Introduction  by 

n  Witherle  Lawrence 


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RIVERSIDE 


Goethe  on  the  Theater 


-7 


Ut 


P  U   HI.  1  C  A  T  I  O  N  S 

of  the 

Dramatic  Museum 

OF  Columbia  University 

IN    THE    LITV   OK    NEW    YORK 
Fi,utlh    Strift 

Discussions  uf  the  Drama: 

I  'Goethe  om  the  Theater,'  selections  from 
the  conversations  with  Eckermann;  trans- 
lated by  John  Oxenford.  With  an  in- 
troduction by  William  Witherle  Lawrence. 

II  'tJoiDOM  o\  Playwriting' ;  translated  and 
compiled  by  F.  C.  L.  Van  Steenderen. 
With  an  introduction  by  H.  C.  Chatfield- 
Taylor. 

Ill  'Prospero's  Island,'  by  Edward  Everett 
Hale.  With  an  introduction  by  Henry 
Cabot    Lodpe. 

1  \  i.F.TTERS  OF  AS  Old  Pi-.4YC0Er'  by  Matthew 
Arnold.  With  an  introduction  by  Brander 
Matthews. 


DISCUSSIONS      OF     THE      DRAMA 

I 

Goethe  on  the  Theater 

Selections  from   the  Conversations   with   Eckermann 

TRANSLATED  BY 

John  Oxenford 

with  an  introduction  by 
William   Witherle  Lawrence 


Printed  for  the 

Dramatic  Museum  of  Columbia  University 

in  the   City  of  Nezo  York 
MCMXIX 


1>HU 
C 
\/.  (. 


CONTENTS 

Introduction  by  William   Witherle  Lawrence ....  I 

Goethe  on  the  Theater ig 


INTRODUCTION 

In  1823,  nine  years  before  Goethe's  death, 
Johann  Peter  Eckermann,  a  young  man  In  his 
early  thirties,  journeyed  on  foot  from  Han- 
over to  Weimar  in  order  to  meet  face  to 
face  the  poet  and  dramatist,  whose  works  he 
had  deeply  admired.  He  was  cordially  re- 
ceived, and  soon  became  an  almost  daily  visi- 
tor at  Goethe's  house.  His  modest  and  gen- 
tle disposition,  and  his  genuine  enthusiasm 
for  literature  and  art,  and  particularly  for 
the  drama,  seem  to  have  endeared  him  to  the 
aging  poet,  who  admitted  him  to  an  intimacy 
denied  to  far  abler  men.  Eckermann's  some- 
what passive  nature  was  no  doubt  more 
agreeable  than  a  more  assertive  character 
would  have  been.  Despite  his  mental  vigor, 
Goethe  was  in  his  last  years  frequently  un- 
well, and  there  are  occasional  hints  in  the 
'Conversations'  of  the  ruses  which  he 
adopted  to  avoid  wearying  himself  with  un- 
congenial visitors.  Probably,  too,  he  had  a 
shrewd  idea  that  this  sensitive  adorer  might 
I 


transmit  to  posterity  a  portrait  worth  the 
havlny;,  and  more  Hattcrlng  than  one  from 
the  hand  of  a  more  vigorous  artist.  Many 
years  before.  Cioethe  had  met  Madame  de 
Stael,  who  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that 
she  Intended  to  immortalize  their  conversa- 
tion in  print.  But  (ioethe  was  repelled 
rather  than  stimulated  by  the  brilliant 
IVenchwoman,  and  he  might  well  have 
feared  that  the  outlines  of  a  likeness  of  him- 
self etched  by  her  hand  would  be  unduly 
sharpened.  Certainly  he  had  nothing  of  the 
sort  to  fear  from  Fxkermann.  He  knew 
quite  well  what  his  disciple  was  doing;  the 
writing  and  publication  of  the  'Conversa- 
tions' was  agreed  upon  by  the  two  men  some 
years  before  Goethe's  death.  It  was  a  happy 
inspiration;  few  books  throw  more  light  upon 
the  convictions  of  Goethe's  maturity,  or  give 
a  more  vivid  Impression  of  his  personality. 
The  literary  reputation  of  Eckermann  him- 
self rests  solely  upon  this  work.  He  had,  at 
various  times  in  his  life,  grandiose  plans  for 
literary  achievement,  but  such  other  material 
as  he  actually  produced  is  of  no  consequence. 
He  is  interesting  solely  as  the  interpreter  of 
Goethe.     Altho  he  was  well   fitted  bv  tern- 


perament  for  this  task,  he  was  Indifferently 
educated.  Born  of  peasant  parents,  he  had, 
by  virtue  of  his  quickness  as  a  child,  received 
schooling  superior  to  his  station,  but  the 
necessity  of  earning  his  own  living  prevented 
him  from  following  his  scholarly  inclinations. 
After  some  experience  in  the  army,  and  in  a 
subordinate  governmental  post,  he  finally  en- 
rolled at  Gottingen  as  a  student  of  law.  But, 
as  he  says  in  the  little  account  of  his  early 
life  which  he  has  left  us,  he  was  like  a  maiden, 
who  finds  good  reason  to  object  to  a  pro- 
posed marriage  because  she  cherishes  another 
in  her  heart.  Eckermann's  real  love  was  not 
law,  but  poetry  and  the  drama.  He  had  also 
bestowed  his  affections  upon  a  girl,  Johanna 
Bertram,  whom  Goethe  does  not  seem  to 
have  encouraged  him  to  marry.  Even  when 
he  did  marry  her,  in  1831,  after  many  years 
of  waiting,  his  devotion  to  Goethe  and  his 
frequent  visits  at  the  poet's  house  seem 
hardly  to  have  been  interrupted.  During  all 
these  years,  his  means  of  making  a  living 
were  somewhat  precarious.  Altho  he  assert- 
ed with  vigor  that  he  was  not  Goethe's  secre- 
tary, but  his  pupil  and  co-worker,  his  serv- 
ices seem  to  have  been  in  part  those  of  liter- 


ary  assistant,  with  the  customary  remunera- 
tion, lie  also  j^ave  lessons  to  English 
visitors  anil  residents  in  Weimar,  which 
helped  him  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  English 
and  an  ability  to  read  the  I''nglish  classics — 
a  valuable  addition  to  his  incomplete  educa- 
tion. Six  years  after  (loethe's  death  he  was 
made  Librarian  to  the  Grand-Duchess  in 
Weimar,  with  the  title  of  Court  Councillor; 
and  in  this  pleasant  sinecure  lived  out  the  re- 
maining years  of  his  life  until  his  death  in 
1854,  a  gentle,  conceited,  unimportant  man, 
to  whom  the  reflected  glory  of  a  great  per- 
sonalit)-  has  lent  a  kind  of  immortality. 

Eckermann  was  not  a  Boswell;  the  'Con- 
versations' have  not  the  vigor  and  piquancy 
of  the  immortal  biography  of  Johnson.  Nor 
does  Goethe  appear  before  us  with  the  direct- 
ness and  sincerity'  of  the  great  lexicographer. 
Despite  many  charming  glimpses  of  the 
poet's  home  life  in  Weimar,  of  his  kindness 
of  heart  and  simplicity  of  taste,  there  are 
constant  suggestions  that  he  is  posing  for  his 
admirer  and  for  posterity.  One  must  take 
Eckermann's  record  of  their  intimacy,  too, 
with  a  grain  of  salt.  The  entries  in  Goethe's 
-^•wn  diary  are  singularly  laconic  when  com- 


pared  with  the  enthusiastic  expressions  in 
Eckermann's  pages.  Goethe  had  been  too 
long  in  the  public  eye  to  reveal  himself  with- 
out reserve.  But  this  very  element  of  cal- 
culation gives  to  his  views  an  authority  and 
finality  which  less  considered  utterances 
might  have  lackt.  It  is  here,  indeed,  that 
the  greatest  value  of  the  'Conversations'  lies. 
They  are  chiefly  important  as  a  record  of 
Goethe's  convictions  on  a  wide  variety  of 
subjects.  In  recording  these  utterances,  in 
reproducing  dialog,  Eckermann  was  singu- 
larly happy.  Goethe's  personality  stands 
forth  with  wonderful  vividness,  and  his 
words,  even  when  oracular,  seem  easy  and 
unconstrained.  We  can  forgive  the  occa- 
sional self-satisfaction  with  which  the  biog- 
rapher sets  down  his  own  views  beside  those 
of  his  master,  in  view  of  the  greater  natural- 
ness which  they  lend  to  the  dialog.  And  if 
Eckermann  has  not  the  alluringly  Inquisitive 
toadlness  of  a  Boswell,  he  Is  not  too  colorless 
a  character  to  engage  the  sympathy  and  in- 
terest of  the  reader  on  his  own  account.  But 
there  are  no  other  full-length  portraits,  not 
even  of  Goethe's  family.  An  occasional  visi- 
tor passes  before  our  eyes,  but  he  is  only 


skctdicd  in.  Eckerniann  saw  only  his  idol; 
he  was  not  the  man  to  portray  a  variety  of 
personalities.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that 
neither  the  visitors  to  Weimar  nor  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  little  grand-ducal  capital  were  at 
all  comparable  to  the  brilliant  circle  which 
gathered  about  Johnson  and  is  immortalized 
in  the  pages  of  Boswcll. 

The  biographer's  chief  passion  was  for  the 
theater — a  passion  so  intense  that  Goethe 
has  many  a  sly  hit  at  his  friend's  ardor.  The 
Weimar  theater  in  the  decade  before  Goethe's 
death,  while  far  from  having  the  renown 
which  the  activity  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  had 
earlier  lent  to  it,  was  a  good  one  as  the  times 
went,  and  it  was  supported  with  considerable 
enthusiasm.  One  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages in  the  'Conversations'  describes  the  fire 
which  destroyed  the  building  in  1825,  and 
there  are  further  accounts  of  the  new  struc- 
ture Immediately  planned  and  erected  to  take 
its  place.  The  Weimar  theater  had  once  be- 
fore, like  the  phoenix,  arisen  from  its  ashes. 
A  fire  in  1774  had  consumed  it;  and  the  new 
playhouse,  the  so-called  'Altes  Theater,' 
shown  in  the  old  prints  as  a  long  barrack- 
like  building  of  two   stories,   with   a   small 

6 


portico  in  front,  was  the  scene  of  most  of 
Goethe's  practical  experience  with  the  drama. 
A  consideration  of  his  connection  with  the 
stage,  then,  must  deal  chiefly  with  his  career 
as  director  of  this  theater. 

When  Goethe  came  to  Weimar  in  17 75) 
at  the  invitation  of  Duke  Karl  August,  he 
found  a  pleasure-loving  court  devoted  to 
stage-plays,  but  possessing  no  regular  thea- 
ter. Private  dramatic  entertainments  were 
a  favorite  form  of  amusement,  and  much 
care  was  lavisht  upon  elaborate  pieces  in 
which  the  court  circle  took  part.  In  these 
amateur  theatricals  Goethe  naturally  became 
prominent.  He  had  shown  himself  to  be  a 
writer  of  distinction,  and  he  was  manifesting 
much  executive  ability  in  the  affairs  of  the 
duchy.  So  when  the  theater  was  finally  built 
and  opened  for  dramatic  performances, 
Goethe  was  made  director.  The  expenses  of 
its  maintenance  were  chiefly  borne  by  the 
Duke;  while  the  public  was  provided  for,  it 
was  essentially  a  house  for  the  court  and  the 
intellectuals.  Actors  of  ability  were  engaged, 
and  great  care  was  taken  with  the  produc- 
tion of  ambitious  works.  Over  all  these  per- 
formances Goethe  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron. 


From  1800  on,  the  genius  ol  Schiller  co- 
operated with  that  of  CJocthc  in  making  the 
Wciiiinr  theater  nieniorable.  The  untimely 
death  ot  his  brother-poet  was  a  great  blow 
to  Goethe's  interest  in  the  active  stage,  but 
he  continued  as  director,  though  not  in  full 
activity,  until  181  7,  when  an  unlucky  quarrel 
with  the  Duke  caused  his  retirement,  to- 
gether with  that  of  his  son  August,  who  had 
recently  become  associated  with  him  in  the 
direction  of  the  theater.  The  rawness  of  the 
breach  with  Karl  August  was  soon  salved 
over,  but  it  was  an  unfortunate  end  to 
Goethe's  distinguisht  career  as  a  theatrical 
manager,  and  a  melancholy  break  in  a  long 
and  intimate  friendship.  Karl  August, 
though  ruling  over  a  duchy  small  in  territory, 
had  made  it  notable  through  his  own  ability 
and  the  talents  of  the  men  whom  he  had 
gathered  about  him. 

The  theater  under  Goethe's  direction  was, 
however,  by  no  means  wholly  successful. 
The  trouble  seems  to  have  been  that  he  was 
primarily  a  poet  rather  than  a  playwright, 
and  that  as  a  director  he  often  sacrificed  the- 
atrical effectiveness  to  other  considerations. 

8 


Like  Byron,  whom  he  greatly  admired,  and 
like  Tennyson  and  Browning,  Goethe  wrote 
much  which  was  unsuited  for  production  on 
the  stage,  tho  cast  in  dramatic  form.  With 
all  his  greatness,  he  belongs  in  a  different 
category  from  Shakspere  or  Moliere,  or 
even  from  Holberg  or  Goldoni,  in  that  his 
plays  are  often  not  essentially  dramatic.  He 
was  much  occupied  with  moral  issues,  with 
setting  forth  an  Ideal;  and  he  was  much  con- 
cerned in  reviving  masterpieces  of  the  past, 
and  in  imitating  the  technic  of  great  drama- 
tists of  other  countries  and  other  ages.  He 
apparently  allowed  himself  to  forget  that 
drama  lives  because  it  tells  a  story  effectively, 
in  a  manner  suited  to  the  audience,  and  to 
the  playhouse  in  which  it  is  acted.  His 
'Iphigenia,'  modeled  upon  Greek  tragedy,  is 
a  noble  work,  despite  its  long  speeches  and 
lack  of  action;  but  it  suffers  in  the  modern 
theater  because  the  audience  lacks  that  in- 
timate acquaintance  with  the  story  which  en- 
abled the  Greeks  to  concentrate  their  atten- 
tion upon  motivation  and  upon  analysis  of 
character.  His  'Gotz  von  Berlichingen,'  one 
of  his  best  plays,  obviously  influenced  by  the 


chronicle-histories  of  Shakspere,  cuts  the  ac- 
tion up  into  many  scenes,  an  arrangement 
easy  enough  upon  the  bare  stage  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans, but  unsuited  to  the  more  elaborate 
scenery  of  modern  days,  which  must  be  shift- 
ed for  each  change  of  locality'.  Goethe 
dreamed  of  foundinp;  a  German  drama,  as  he 
tells  Eckermann,  and  to  that  end  wrote 
'Iphigenia'  and  'Tasso,'  but  was  disheartened 
at  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  in  his  audience. 
He  criticised  Lessing  for  choosing  the  quar- 
rels of  Saxony  and  Prussia  as  a  background 
for  'Minna  von  Barnhelm,'  but  it  was  a 
wiser  choice  for  an  audience  of  German  peo- 
ple than  episodes  of  classical  tragedy  or 
Renascence  idealism.  Goethe's  greatest 
work,  'Faust,'  is  a  perfect  illustration  of 
great  drama  which  is  unsuited  to  the  the- 
ater. The  Second  Part,  though  often  given 
in  Germany,  needs  only  to  be  seen  on  the 
stage  to  be  adjudged  a  piece  to  be  read;  and 
the  First  Part,  with  all  its  glorious  poetry, 
and  with  all  the  effectiveness  of  single  scenes, 
is  really  a  succession  of  episodes  rather 
than  a  connected  drama.  It  lacks  the  cohe- 
sion which  binds  together  even  the  loosest 

lO 


of  Shakspere's  dramatic  romances,  like  the 
'Winter's  Tale'  or  'Cymbeline.'  The  plays 
of  Schiller  are  far  superior  to  those  of 
Goethe  in  dramatic  effectiveness,  but  even 
Schiller  was  not  wholly  free  from  the  fault 
which  has  just  been  noted.  Goethe  himself 
speaks  in  the  'Conversations'  of  the  diffi- 
culty which  Schiller  experienced  in  subduing 
his  material  to  dramatic  form.  The  soaring 
imagination  of  each  great  poet  was  hardly 
to  be  confined  within  the  somewhat  arbitrary 
limits  of  dramatic  technic.  It  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  some  of  Goethe's  plays  which 
are  given  in  Germany  at  the  present  day 
would  not  have  lost  their  place  in  the  play- 
house long  since,  were  it  not  for  the  great- 
ness of  Goethe  as  a  master  of  literature,  and 
the  piety  with  which  the  Germans  regard 
even  the  minor  works  of  a  genius.  Probably 
few  Germans  would  agree  with  Scherer's 
conclusion  that  Goethe  lackt  the  fiber  of  a 
dramatist. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  if  Goethe 
was  not  always  successful  in  practice,  he  was 
generally  correct  in  precept.  He  recognized 
very  clearly  the  difficulty  of  composition  for 


II 


the  stage.  Upon  this  point  he  exprest  him- 
self in  no  uncertain  terms  to  Kckermann. 
"Writing  for  the  stage,"  he  said,  "is  an  art 
bv  itself,  and  he  who  does  not  understand  it 
thoroly  had  better  leave  it  alone,  l^very- 
one  thinks  that  an  interesting  fact  will  ap- 
pear interesting  in  the  theater — nothing  of 
the  kind !  Things  may  be  very  pretty  to 
read,  and  very  prett>'  to  think  about;  but  as 
soon  as  they  are  put  upon  the  stage  the  effect 
is  quite  different,  and  what  has  charmed  us 
in  the  closet  will  probably  fall  flat  on  the 
boards.  When  one  reads  my  'Hermann  and 
Dorothea,'  he  thinks  it  might  be  brought  out 
at  the  theater.  Topfer  has  been  inveigled 
into  the  experiment,  but  what  is  it,  what  ef- 
fect does  it  produce,  especially  if  it  is  not 
played  in  a  first-rate  manner?  And  who  can 
say  that  it  is  in  every  respect  a  good  piece? 
Writing  for  the  stage  is  a  trade  that  one 
must  understand,  and  requires  a  talent  that 
one  must  possess.  Both  are  uncommon,  and 
where  they  are  not  combined,  we  shall  scarce- 
ly have  any  good  result."  Such  suggestive 
observations  as  these  on  the  business  of  play- 
making    and    play-producing    are    scattered 


12 


thru  the  'Conversations.'  Goethe  loved  to 
crystallize  his  knowledge  into  pungent 
phrases,  but  he  perceived  clearly  the  futility 
of  attempting  to  reduce  theatrical  manage- 
ment to  a  series  of  aphorisms.  "The  the- 
ater," he  says  in  a  short  paper  on  the  Wei- 
mar stage,  "is  one  of  those  affairs  which  can 
least  of  all  be  managed  according  to  rules; 
one  Is  entirely  dependent  upon  the  times  in 
which  he  lives  and  upon  his  contemporaries. 
What  the  author  chooses  to  write,  the  ac- 
tors to  perform,  and  the  public  to  hear — 
these  are  the  things  that  tyrannize  over  the 
directors  of  theaters,  and  in  the  face  of  which 
they  can  preserve  hardly  any  will  of  their 
own."  The  history  of  the  Weimar  theater 
scarcely  bears  this  out.  Goethe  was,  it  ap- 
pears, rather  a  tyrannical  director  himself; 
his  imperious  will  often  aroused  opposition. 
Possibly  the  very  force  of  the  circumstances 
of  which  he  speaks — the  demands  made  by 
author,  actors,  and  public — roused  his  nat- 
urally vigorous  temperament  to  a  more  in- 
tense activity. 

To  select  for  reprinting  passages  which 
deal  with  only  one  subject  does  an  injustice 

13 


to  the  'Conversations'  as  a  whole.  Perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  tiling  about  Goethe  was 
the  variety  of  his  interests  and  the  diversity 
of  the  pursuits  in  which  he  attained  distinc- 
tion. Of  this  versatility  and  virtuosity  the 
'Conversations'  give  a  very  striking  illustra- 
tion. The  keenest  interest  in  art,  letters,  sci- 
ence, politics,  and  philosophy  is  there  re- 
vealed. It  is  the  record  of  a  mind  of  the 
widest  sympathy  with  many  different  forms 
of  human  endeavor.  The  picture  is  no  doubt 
too  much  idealized;  we  know  well  enough 
that  Goethe  was  neither  a  saint  nor  a  demi- 
god, but  a  man  with  many  human  weaknesses. 
But  we  can  forgive  some  suppression  of  his 
defects  in  the  general  truth  of  the  portrait 
drawn  by  Eckermann.  The  'Conversations' 
indeed  confirm  Napoleon's  terse  character- 
ization of  Goethe — an  unconscious  echo  of 
Antony's  words  over  the  dead  Brutus,  and 
doubly  significant  because  of  Napoleon's  own 
intellectual  eminence — "Voila  un  homme!" 


John  Oxenford's  translation  of  the  'Con- 
versations,' completed  midway  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  while  not  without  faults,  is 

14 


fairly  adequate.*  The  original  German, 
which  would  sometimes  be  clumsy  if  rendered 
literally  into  English,  is  often  paraphrased, 
with  a  slight  flavor  of  mid-Victorian  elegance 
quite  in  keeping  with  Eckermann's  rather 
conscious  style.  The  present  editor  has 
taken  the  liberty  of  making  a  few  alterations, 
in  order  to  secure  greater  accuracy,  clearness, 
or  smoothness. 

It  seems  incomparably  the  better  plan  to 
arrange  the  'Conversations'  in  the  order  in 
which  they  are  reported  as  having  taken 
place,  irrespective  of  the  date  of  their  appear- 
ance in  print.  To  indicate  the  arrangement 
In  the  original  editions  serves  only  the  pur- 
pose of  the  special  student  of  Goethe-bibliog- 


*  'Conversations  of  Goethe  with  Eckermann  and  Soret, 
translated  from  the  German  by  John  Oxenford.'  Revised 
edition,  Bell  and  Sons,  London,  1913.  The  original  edition 
of  Oxenford's  work  appeared  in  1850.  A  useful  critical 
edition  of  the  original  is  that  by  Dr.  H.  H.  Houben: 
'Gesprache  mit  Goethe  in  den  letzten  Jahren  seines  Lebens, 
von  Johann  Peter  Eckermann.'  Brockhaus,  Leipzig,  1909. 
The  first  German  edition  of  the  'Conversations'  was  pub- 
lished in  two  volumes  in  1836.  In  1848  Eckermann  added 
a  third  volume  containing  additional  material,  some  of  it 
fumisht  by  a  Swiss  gentleman  named  Soret,  who  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Goethe's  house.  A  translation 
of  some  portions  of  the  'Conversations,'  by  Margaret 
Fuller,  was  published  in  1839. 

15 


rapliy.  In  general,  only  those  passages 
which  ha\e  a  direct  bearing  on  tlie  drama  are 
here  reprinted,  altho  no  attempt  iias  been 
made  to  include  tliem  all.  Enough  of  the 
narrative  of  life  in  Weimar  has  been  given 
to  make  the  discussions  of  the  theater  and  its 
people  more  vivid  and  comprehensible. 

The  purpose  of  the  present  selections  is 
not  to  offer  a  commentary  on  Goethe,  or  on 
the  theatrical  conditions  of  his  day;  its  aim 
is  rather  to  bring  together  in  convenient  form 
the  dramatic  convictions  of  a  great  poetic 
genius,  who  was  both  a  prolific  writer  for  the 
theater  and  a  dramatic  director  of  long  and 
varied  experience.  This  volume  was  project- 
ed, the  selections  made  and  revised,  and  the 
introduction  written  before  the  war.  Very 
few  alterations,  none  of  any  consequence, 
have  since  been  made.  It  Is  worth  remem- 
bering that  Goethe's  attitude  towards  ques- 
tions of  political  morality  In  no  wise  agrees 
with  that  of  his  countrymen  in  the  present 
generation. 

William  Witherle  Lawrence. 


x6 


GOETHE  ON  THE  THEATER 


GOETHE  ON  THE  THEATER 

1823 

Tuesday,  October  14th.  This  evening,  I 
went  for  the  first  time  to  a  large  tea-party 
at  Goethe's.  I  arrived  first,  and  enjoyed 
the  view  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  apartments, 
which,  thru  open  doors,  led  one  into  another. 
In  one  of  the  furthest,  I  found  Goethe,  who 
came  to  meet  me  with  a  cheerful  air.  He 
was  drest  in  black,  and  wore  his  star,  which 
became  him  so  well.  We  were  for  a  while 
alone,  and  went  into  the  so-called  "ceiling 
room"  {Deckenzimmer) ,  where  the  picture 
of  the  Aldobrandine  Marriage,  which  was 
hung  above  a  red  couch,  especially  attracted 
my  attention.  On  the  curtains  being  drawn 
aside,  the  picture  was  before  my  eyes  in  a 
strong  light,  and  I  was  delighted  to  con- 
template it  quietly.   .    .    . 

Goethe  himself  appeared  very  amiable  in 
society.    He  went  about  from  one  to  another, 

19 


and  always  sccnicd  to  prefer  listeninf^  and 
hearing  liis  guests  talk,  to  talking  much  him- 
self.   .    .    . 

lie  came  to  me  with  Frau  von  Goethe. 
"  Fhis  is  my  daughter-in-law,"  said  he;  "do 
you  know  each  other?" 

We  told  him  that  we  had  just  become  ac- 
quainted. 

"lie  is  as  much  a  child  about  a  theater  as 
you,  Ottilie!"  said  he;  and  we  exchanged 
congratulations  upon  this  taste  which  we  had 
in  common.  "My  daughter,"  continued  he, 
"never  misses  an  evening." 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  said  I,  "as  long  as 
they  give  good  lively  pieces;  but  when  the 
pieces  are  bad,  they  try  the  patience." 

"But,"  said  Goethe,  "it  is  a  good  thing  that 
you  cannot  leave,  but  are  forced  to  hear  and 
see  even  what  is  bad.  By  this  means,  you 
are  penetrated  with  the  hatred  for  the  bad, 
and  come  to  a  clearer  insight  into  the  good. 
In  reading,  it  is  not  so — you  throw  aside  the 
book,  if  it  displeases  you;  but  at  the  theater 
you   must  endure." 

Saturday,  October  25th.  We  talkt  of 
the  theater,  which  was  one  of  the  topics 
which  chiefly  interested  me  this  winter.    The 

20 


'Erdennacht'  of  Raupach  was  the  last  piece 
I  had  seen.  I  gave  it  as  my  opinion  that  the 
piece  was  not  brought  before  us  as  it  existed 
in  the  mind  of  the  poet;  that  the  Idea  was 
more  predominant  than  Life;  that  it  was 
rather  lyric  than  dramatic;  and  that  what 
was  spun  out  through  five  acts  would  have 
been  far  better  in  two  or  three.  Goethe  add- 
ed that  the  idea  of  the  whole  turned  upon 
aristocracy  and  democracy,  and  that  this  was 
by  no  means  of  universal  interest  to  hu- 
manity. 

I  then  praised  those  pieces  of  Kotzebue's 
which  I  had  seen — namely,  his  "Verwand- 
schaften,'  and  his  'Versohnung.'  I  praised 
in  them  the  quick  eye  for  real  life,  the  dex- 
terity at  seizing  its  interesting  sides,  and  the 
occasionally  genuine  and  forcible  representa- 
tion of  it.  Goethe  agreed  with  me.  "What 
has  kept  its  place  for  twenty  years,  and  en- 
joys the  favor  of  the  people,"  said  he,  "must 
have  something  in  it.  When  Kotzebue  con- 
tented himself  with  his  own  sphere,  and  did 
not  go  beyond  his  powers,  he  usually  did  well. 
It  was  the  same  with  him  as  with  Chodo- 
wiecky,  who  always  succeeded  perfectly  with 
the  scenes  of  common  citizens'  life,  while  if 

21 


he  attempted  to  paint  Cireek  or  Roman 
heroes,  lie  failed." 

Goethe  named  several  other  good  pieces 
of  Kotzebue's,  especially  'Die  beidcn  Klings- 
berge.'  "No  one  can  deny,"  said  he,  "that 
Kotzebue  has  lookt  about  a  great  deal  in 
life,  and  kept  his  eyes  open. 

"Intellect,  and  some  poetry,"  continued 
Goethe,  "cannot  be  denied  to  our  modern 
tragic  poets,  but  most  of  them  are  incapa- 
ble of  an  easy,  living  representation;  they 
strive  after  something  beyond  their  powers; 
and  for  that  reason  I  might  call  them  forced 
talents." 

"I  doubt,"  said  I,  "whether  such  poets 
could  write  a  piece  in  prose,  and  am  of  the 
opinion  that  this  would  be  the  true  touch- 
stone of  their  talent."  Goethe  agreed  with 
me,  adding  that  versification  enhanced,  and 
even  called  forth,  poetic  feeling. 


22 


1824 

Friday,  January  2nd.  We  talkt  of  Eng- 
lish literature,  the  greatness  of  Shakspere, 
and  the  unfavorable  position  held  by  all  Eng- 
lish dramatic  authors  who  had  appeared  af- 
ter that  poetical  giant. 

"A  dramatic  talent  of  any  importance," 
said  Goethe,  "could  not  forbear  to  notice 
Shakspere's  works,  nay,  could  not  forbear  to 
study  them.  Having  studied  them,  he  must 
be  aware  that  Shakspere  has  already  ex- 
hausted the  whole  of  human  nature  in  all  its 
tendencies,  in  all  its  heights  and  depths,  and 
that,  in  fact,  there  remains  for  him,  the  after- 
comer,  nothing  more  to  do.  And  how  could 
one  get  courage  to  put  pen  to  paper,  if  one 
were  conscious,  even  in  a  spirit  of  earnestness 
and  appreciation,  that  such  unfathomable 
and  unattainable  excellences  were  already  in 
existence ! 

"It  fared  better  with  me  fifty  years  ago  in 
my  own  dear  Germany.     I  could  soon  come 

23 


to  an  end  with  all  that  then  existed;  it  could 
not  lon^  awe  nie,  or  occupy  my  attention.  I 
soon  left  behind  ine  German  literature,  and 
the  study  of  it,  and  turned  my  thoughts  to 
life  and  to  production.  So  gradually  ad- 
vancing I  proceeded  in  my  natural  develop- 
ment, and  formed  myself  for  the  work  which 
from  one  time  to  another  I  was  able  to  pro- 
duce. And  at  every  step  of  life  and  devel- 
opment my  standard  of  excellence  was  not 
much  higher  than  what  at  such  step  I  was 
able  to  attain.  But  had  1  been  born  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  had  all  those  diverse  master- 
pieces been  brought  before  me  in  all  their 
power  at  my  first  dawn  of  youthful  con- 
sciousness, they  would  have  overpowered  me, 
and  I  should  not  have  known  what  to  do.  I 
could  not  have  gone  on  with  such  fresh  light- 
heartedness,  but  should  have  had  to  bethink 
myself,  and  look  about  for  a  long  time,  to 
find  some  new  outlet," 

I  turned  the  conversation  back  to  Shak- 
spere.  "When  one,  to  some  degree,  disen- 
gages him  from  English  literature,"  said  I, 
"and  considers  him  transformed  into  a  Ger- 
man, one  cannot  fail  to  look  upon  his  gigan- 
tic greatness  as  a  miracle.     But  if  one  seeks 

24 


him  in  his  home,  transplants  oneself  to  the 
soil  of  his  country,  and  to  the  atmosphere  of 
the  century  in  which  he  lived;  further,  if  one 
studies  his  contemporaries,  and  his  Immedi- 
ate successors,  and  inhales  the  force  wafted 
to  us  from  Ben  Jonson,  Massinger,  Mar- 
lowe, and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Shakspere 
still,  indeed,  appears  a  being  of  the  most  ex- 
alted magnitude;  but  one  arrives  at  the  con- 
viction that  many  of  the  wonders  of  his 
genius  are,  in  some  measure,  accessible,  and 
that  much  in  his  work  is  due  to  the  powerful 
and  productive  atmosphere  of  his  age  and 
time." 

"You  are  perfectly  right,"  returned 
Goethe.  "It  is  with  Shakspere  as  with  the 
mountains  of  Switzerland.  Transplant  Mont 
Blanc  at  once  into  the  large  plain  of  Liine- 
burg  Heath,  and  you  would  find  no  words  to 
express  your  wonder  at  its  magnitude.  Visit 
it,  however,  in  its  gigantic  home,  go  to  it 
over  its  immense  neighbors,  the  Jungfrau, 
the  Finsteraarhorn,  the  Eiger,  the  Wetter- 
horn,  St.  Gothard,  and  Monte  Rosa;  Mont 
Blanc  will,  indeed,  still  remain  a  giant,  but 
it  will  no  longer  produce  in  us  such  amaze- 
ment. 

25 


"Besides,  let  him  who  will  not  believe," 
continued  CJocthe,  "that  much  of  Shakspere's 
greatness  belongs  to  his  great  vigorous  time 
only  ask  himself  the  question,  whether  he 
thinks  so  astounding  a  phenomenon  would 
be  possible  in  the  presiMit  IZngland  of  1824, 
in  these  evil  days  of  journals  that  criticise 
and  destroy?" 

Tuesday,  March  30th.  This  evening  I 
was  with  Goethe.  I  was  alone  with  him;  we 
talked  on  various  subjects,  and  drank  a  bottle 
of  wine.  We  spoke  of  the  French  drama,  as 
contrasted  with  the  German. 

"It  will  be  very  difficult,"  said  Goethe, 
"for  the  German  public  to  come  to  a  kind  of 
right  judgment,  as  they  do  in  Italy  and 
France.  We  have  a  special  obstacle  in  the 
circumstance  that  on  our  stage  a  medley  of 
all  sorts  of  things  is  represented.  On  the 
same  boards  where  we  saw  Hamlet  yester- 
day, we  see  Staberle  to-day;  and  if  to-mor- 
row we  are  delighted  with  'The  Magic 
Flute,'  the  day  after  we  shall  be  charmed  with 
the  oddities  of  the  favorite  of  the  moment. 
Hence  the  public  becomes  confused  in  Its 
iudgment,  mingling  together  various  species, 
which   it  never  learns  rightly  to   appreciate 

26 


and  to  understand.  Furthermore,  every  one 
has  his  own  individual  demands  and  personal 
wishes,  and  returns  to  the  spot  where  he  finds 
them  realized.  On  the  tree  where  he  has 
pluckt  figs  to-day,  he  would  pluck  them  again 
to-morrow,  and  would  make  a  long  face  if 
sloes  had  grown  in  their  stead  during  the 
night.  But  if  any  one  is  a  friend  to  sloes,  he 
turns  to  the  thorns. 

"Schiller  had  the  happy  thought  of  build- 
ing a  house  for  tragedy  alone,  and  of  giving 
a  piece  every  week  for  the  male  sex  exclu- 
sively. But  this  notion  presupposed  a  very 
large  city,  and  could  not  be  realized  in  our 
humble  circumstances." 

We  talkt  about  the  plays  of  Mand  and 
Kotzebue,  which,  in  their  way,  Goethe  highly 
commended.  "From  this  very  fault,"  said 
he,  "that  people  do  not  perfectly  distinguish 
between  kinds  in  art,  the  pieces  of  these  men 
are  often  unjustly  censured.  We  may  wait 
a  long  time  before  a  couple  of  such  popular 
talents  come  again," 

Sunday,  May  2nd.  Goethe  had  sent  me 
this  morning  a  roll  of  papers  relative  to  the 
theater,  among  which  I  had  found  some  de- 
tacht  remarks,  containing  the  rules  and  stud- 

27 


ics  whuh  he  had  carried  out  with  Wolff  and 
Cihincr  to  qualify  thcin  for  j^ood  actors.  I 
found  these  details  important  and  highly  in- 
structive for  young  actors,  and  therefore  pro- 
posed to  put  them  together,  and  make  from 
them  a  sort  of  theatrical  catechism.  Goethe 
consented,  and  we  discust  the  matter  fur- 
ther. This  gave  us  occasion  to  speak  of 
some  distinguisht  actors  who  had  been 
formed  in  his  school;  and  I  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  ask  some  questions  about  Frau  von 
Heigendorf.  "I  may,"  said  Goethe,  "have 
influenced  her,  but,  properly  speaking,  she  is 
not  my  pupil.  She  was,  as  it  were,  born  on 
the  boards,  and  was  as  decided,  ready,  and 
adroit  in  anything  as  a  duck  in  the  water. 
She  did  not  need  my  instruction,  but  did  what 
was  right  instinctively,  perhaps  without 
knowing  it." 

We  then  talkt  of  the  many  years  he  had 
superintended  the  theater,  and  the  infinite 
time  which  had  thus  been  lost  to  literary 
production.  "Yes,"  said  he,  "I  may  have 
missed  writing  many  a  good  thing,  but  when 
I  reflect,  I  am  not  sorry.  I  have  always  re- 
garded all  I  have  done  solely  as  symbolical ; 
and,  in  fact,  it  has  been  pretty  much  a  mat- 

28 


ter  of  Indifference    to    me    whether  I  have 
made  pots  or  dishes." 


29 


1825 

Tuesday,  January  iSth.  Riemer  spoke  of 
Schiller's  personal  appearance.  "The  build 
of  his  Hmbs,  his  gait  in  the  street,  all  his  mo- 
tions," said  he,  "were  proud;  his  eyes  only 
were  soft." 

"Yes,"  said  Goethe,  "everything  else  about 
him  was  proud  and  majestic,  only  the  eyes 
were  soft.  And  his  talent  was  like  his  out- 
ward form.  He  seized  boldly  on  a  great 
subject,  and  turned  it  this  way  and  that,  and 
lookt  at  it  now  on  one  side,  now  on  another, 
and  handled  it  in  diverse  ways.  But  he  saw 
his  object,  as  it  were,  only  on  the  outside; 
a  quiet  development  from  within  was  not 
within  his  province.  His  talent  was  desul- 
tory. Thus  he  was  never  decided — could 
never  bring  things  to  an  end.  He  often 
changed  a  part  just  before  a  rehearsal. 

"And,  as  he  went  so  boldly  to  work,  he 
did  not  take  sufficient  pains  about  motives. 

30 


I  recollect  what  trouble  I  had  with  him,  when 
he  wanted  to  make  Gessler,  in  'Tell,'  abrupt- 
ly break  an  apple  from  the  tree,  and  have  it 
shot  from  the  boy's  head.  This  was  quite 
against  my  nature,  and  I  urged  him  to  give 
at  least  some  motive  to  this  barbarity  by 
making  the  boy  boast  to  Gessler  of  his 
father's  dexterity,  and  say  that  he  could  shoot 
an  apple  from  a  tree  at  a  hundred  paces. 
Schiller,  at  first,  would  have  nothing  of  the 
sort;  but  at  last  he  yielded  to  my  arguments 
and  intentions,  and  did  as  I  advised  him.  I, 
on  the  other  hand,  by  too  great  attention  to 
motives,  kept  my  pieces  from  the  theater. 
My  'Eugenie'  is  nothing  but  a  chain  of  mo- 
tives, and  this  cannot  succeed  on  the  stage. 
"Schiller's  genius  was  really  made  for  the 
theater.  With  every  piece  he  progrest,  and 
became  more  finisht;  but,  strange  to  say,  a 
certain  love  for  the  horrible  adhered  to  him 
from  the  time  of  the  'Robbers,'  which  never 
quite  left  him  even  in  his  prime.  I  still  recol- 
lect perfectly  well  that  in  the  prison  scene 
in  my  'Egmont,'  where  the  sentence  is  read 
to  him,  Schiller  would  have  made  Alva  ap- 
pear in  the  background,  maskt  and  muffled  in 
a  cloak,  enjoying  the  effect  which  the  sen- 

31 


tcncc  would  produce  on  Kginont.  1  luis  Alva 
was  to  show  himself  insatiable  in  revenge  and 
malice.  I,  however,  protested,  and  prevent- 
ed his  appearance.  Schiller  was  a  great  and 
wonderful  man. 

Thursday,  February  24th.  "If  I  were 
still  superintendent  of  the  theater,"  said 
Goethe  this  evening,  "I  \vould  bring  out 
Byron's  'Doge  of  Venice.'  The  piece  is  in- 
deed too  long  and  would  require  shortening. 
Nothing,  however,  should  be  cut  out,  but  the 
import  of  each  scene  should  be  taken,  and  ex- 
prest  more  concisely.  The  piece  would 
thus  be  brought  closer  together,  without  be- 
ing damaged  by  alterations,  and  it  would 
gain  a  pow^erful  effect,  without  any  essential 
loss   of  beauty." 

This  opinion  of  Goethe's  gave  me  a  new 
view  as  to  how  we  might  proceed  on  the 
stage,  in  a  hundred  similar  cases.     .     .     . 

We  talkt  more  about  Lord  Byron,  and  I 
mentioned  how,  in  his  conversations  with 
Medwin,  he  had  said  there  was  something 
extremely  difficult  and  unthankful  in  writing 
for  the  theater.  "The  great  point  is,"  said 
Goethe,  "for  the  poet  to  strike  into  the  path 

32 


which  the  taste  and  interest  of  the  public  have 
taken.  If  the  direction  of  his  talent  accords 
with  that  of  the  public,  everything  is  gained. 
Houwald  hit  this  path  with  his  'Bild,'  and 
hence  the  universal  applause  he  received. 
Lord  Byron,  perhaps,  would  not  have  been 
so  fortunate,  inasmuch  as  his  tendency  varied 
from  that  of  the  public.  The  greatness  of 
the  poet  is  by  no  means  the  important  mat- 
ter. On  the  contrary,  one  who  is  little  ele- 
vated above  the  general  public  may  often 
gain  the  most  general  favor  precisely  on  that 
account." 

We  continued  to  converse  about  Byron, 
and  Goethe  admired  his  extraordinary  tal- 
ent. "That  which  I  call  invention,"  said  he, 
"I  never  saw  in  any  one  in  the  world  to  a 
greater  degree  than  in  him.  His  manner  of 
loosing  a  dramatic  knot  is  always  better  than 
one  would  anticipate." 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  what  I  feel  about 
Shakspere,  especially  when  Falstaff  has  en- 
tangled himself  in  such  a  net  of  falsehoods, 
and  when  I  ask  myself  what  I  should  do  to 
help  him  out  I  find  that  Shakspere  far  sur- 
passes all  my  ideas.     That  you  say  the  same 

33 


of  Lord  Byron  is  the  liiLjlicst  praise  that 
can  be  bestowed  on  him.  Nevertheless,"  I 
added,  "the  poet  who  takes  a  clear  survey  of 
beginning  and  end  has,  by  far,  the  advan- 
tage with  the  experienced  reader." 

Goethe  agreed  with  me,  and  laught  to 
think  that  Lord  Byron,  who,  in  practical  life, 
could  never  adapt  himself,  and  never  askt 
about  a  law,  finally  subjected  himself  to  the 
stupidest  of  laws — that  of  the  three  unities. 

"He  understood  the  purpose  of  this  law," 
said  he,  "no  better  than  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Comprehensibility  is  the  purpose, 
and  the  three  unities  are  only  so  far  good 
as  they  conduce  to  this  end.  If  the  observ- 
ance of  them  hinders  the  comprehension  of 
a  work,  it  is  foolish  to  treat  them  as  laws, 
and  try  to  observe  them.  Even  the  Greeks, 
from  whom  the  rule  was  taken,  did  not  al- 
ways follow  it.  In  the  'Phaeton'  of  Euripides, 
and  in  other  pieces,  there  is  a  change  of  place, 
and  it  is  obvious  that  good  representation  of 
their  subjects  was  with  them  more  important 
than  blind  obedience  to  a  law,  which,  in  it- 
self, is  of  no  great  consequence.  The  pieces 
of  Shakspere  deviate,  as    far    as    possible, 

34 


from  the  unities  of  time  and  place;  but  they 
are  comprehensible — nothing  is  more  so — 
and  on  this  account  the  Greeks  would  have 
found  no  fault  with  them.  The  French  poets 
have  endeavored  to  follow  more  rigidly  the 
laws  of  the  three  unities,  but  they  sin 
against  comprehensibility,  inasmuch  as  they 
show  a  dramatic  law,  not  dramatically,  but 
by  narration." 

Tuesday,  March  22nd.  Last  night,  soon 
after  twelve  o'clock,  we  were  awakened  by 
an  alarm  of  fire;  we  heard  cries:  "The 
theater  is  on  fire !"  I  at  once  threw  on  my 
clothes,  and  hastened  to  the  spot.  The  uni- 
versal consternation  was  very  great.  Only 
a  few  hours  before  we  had  been  delighted 
with  the  excellent  acting  of  La  Roche  in  Cum- 
berland's "Jew,"  and  Seidel  had  excited  uni- 
versal laughter  by  his  good  humor  and  jokes. 
And  now,  in  the  place  so  lately  the  scene  of 
intellectual  pleasures,  raged  the  most  terrible 
element  of  destruction. 

The  fire,  which  was  occasioned  by  the  heat- 
ing apparatus,  appears  to  have  broken  out 
in  the  pit;  it  soon  spread  to  the  stage  and 
the  dry  lath-work  of  the  wings,  and,  as  it 
increased  fearfully  by  the  great  quantity  of 

35 


combustible  material,  it  was  not  long  before 
the  flames  burst  thru  the  roof,  and  the  rafters 
gave  way. 

I  saw  in  beautiful  eyes  many  tears,  which 
flowed  for  its  downfall.  I  was  no  less  toucht 
by  the  grief  of  a  member  of  the  orchestra. 
He  wept  for  his  burnt  violin.  As  the  day 
dawned,  I  saw  many  pale  countenances.  I 
remarkt  several  young  girls  and  women  of 
high  rank,  who  had  awaited  the  result  of 
the  fire  during  the  whole  night,  and  who  now 
shivered  in  the  cold  morning  air.  I  returned 
home  to  take  a  little  rest,  and  in  the  course 
of  the  forenoon  I  called  upon  Goethe. 

The  servant  told  me  that  he  was  unwell  and 
In  bed.     Still  Goethe  called  me  to  his  side. 

•  •••••  f 

"I  have  thought  much  of  you,  and  pitied 
you,"  said  he.  "What  will  you  do  with  your 
evenings  now?" 

**You  know,"  returned  I,  "how  passion- 
ately I  love  the  theater.  When  I  came  here, 
two  years  ago,  I  knew  nothing  at  all,  except 
three  or  four  pieces  which  I  had  seen  In  Han- 
over. .  .  .  All  was  new  to  me,  actors 
as  well  as  pieces;  and  twice,  according  to  your 
advice,  T  have  given  myself  up  entirely  to  the 

36 


Impression  of  the  subject,  without  much 
thinking  or  reflecting.  1  can  say  with  truth 
that  I  have,  during  these  two  winters,  past 
at  the  theater  the  most  innocent  and  most 
agreeable  hours  that  1  have  ever  known.  1 
was,  moreover,  so  infatuated  with  the  thea- 
ter that  I  not  only  missed  no  performance, 
but  also  obtained  admission  to  the  rehearsals ; 
nay,  not  contented  with  this,  if,  as  I  past  in 
the  daytime,  I  chanced  to  find  the  doors 
open,  I  would  enter,  and  sit  for  half  an  hour 
upon  the  empty  benches  in  the  pit,  and  Imag- 
ine scenes  which  might  at  some  time  be 
played  there." 

"You  are  a  crazy  fellow,"  returned 
Goethe,  laughing;  "but  that  Is  what  I  like. 
Would  to  God  that  the  whole  public  con- 
sisted of  such  children !  And  In  fact  you  are 
right.  Any  one  who  is  sufficiently  young,  and 
who  Is  not  quite  spoiled,  could  not  easily  find 
any  place  that  would  suit  him  so  well  as  a 
theater.  No  one  makes  any  demands  upon 
you;  you  need  not  open  your  mouth  unless 
you  choose;  on  the  contrary,  you  sit  quite  at 
your  ease  like  a  king,  and  let  everything  pass 
before  you,  and  recreate  your  mind  and 
senses   to   your   heart's   content.      There   is 

37 


poetry,  there  is  painting,  there  arc  singing 
and  music,  there  is  acting  and  what  not  be- 
sides. When  all  these  arts,  and  the  charm 
of  youth  and  beauty  heightened  to  a  consid- 
erable degree,  work,  together  on  the  same 
evening,  it  is  an  occasion  to  which  no  other 
can  compare.  But,  even  when  part  is  bad 
and  part  is  good,  it  is  still  better  than  look- 
ing out  of  the  window,  or  playing  a  game 
of  whist  in  a  close  party  amid  the  smoke  of 
cigars.  The  theater  at  Weimar  is,  as  you  feel, 
by  no  means  to  be  despised;  it  is  still  an  old 
trunk  from  our  best  time,  to  \vhich  new  and 
fresh  talents  have  attacht  themselves;  and 
we  can  still  produce  something  which  charms 
and  pleases,  and  at  least  gives  the  appear- 
ance of  an  organized  whole." 

"Would  I  had  seen  it  twenty  or  thirty 
years  ago!"  answered  I. 

"That  w^as  certainly  a  time,"  replied 
Goethe,  "when  we  were  assisted  by  great 
advantages.  Consider  that  the  tedious  pe- 
riod of  the  French  taste  had  not  long  gone 
by;  that  the  public  was  not  yet  spoiled  by 
overexcitement;  that  the  influence  of  Shak- 
spere  was  in  all  its  first  freshness;  that  the 
operas  of  Mozart  were  new;  and,  lastly,  that 

38 


the  pieces  of  Schiller  were  first  produced 
here  year  after  year,  and  were  given  at  the 
theater  of  Weimar  in  all  their  first  glory, 
under  his  own  superintendence.  Consider 
all  this,  I  say,  and  you  will  imagine  that,  with 
such  dishes,  a  fine  banquet  was  given  to  old 
and  young,  and  that  we  always  had  a  grate- 
ful public." 

I  remarkt,  "Older  persons,  who  lived  in 
those  times,  cannot  praise  highly  enough  the 
elevated  position  which  the  Weimar  theater 
then  held." 

"I  will  not  deny  that  it  was  of  some  ac- 
count," returned  Goethe.  "The  main  point, 
however,  was  this,  that  the  Grand  Duke  left 
my  hands  quite  free,  and  I  could  do  just  as 
I  likt.  I  did  not  look  to  magnificent  sce- 
nery, and  a  brilliant  wardrobe,  but  I  lookt  to 
good  pieces.  From  tragedy  to  farce,  every 
species  was  welcome;  but  a  piece  was  obliged 
to  have  something  in  It  to  find  favor.  It  was 
necessary  that  It  should  be  great  and  clever, 
cheerful  and  graceful,  and,  at  all  events, 
healthy  and  containing  some  pith.  All  that 
was  morbid,  weak,  lachrymose  and  senti- 
mental, as  well  as  all  that  was  frightful,  hor- 
rible and  offensive  to  decorum,  was  utterly 

39 


excluded;  1  slioiild  li;nc  feared,  by  such  ex- 
pedients, to  spoil  both  actors  and  audience. 
"By  means  of  good  pieces  1  educated  the 
actors;  tor  the  study  of  excellence,  and  the 
perpetual  practice  of  excellence,  must  neces- 
sarily make  something  of  a  man  whom  na- 
ture has  not  left  ungifted.  1  was,  also,  con- 
stantly in  personal  contact  with  the  actors. 
1  attended  the  readings  of  plays,  and  ex- 
plained to  every  one  his  part;  1  was  present 
at  the  chief  rehearsals,  and  talkt  with  the 
actors  as  to  any  improvements  that  might 
be  made;  I  was  never  absent  from  a  per- 
formance, and  pointed  out  the  next  day  any- 
thing w^hich  did  not  appear  to  me  to  be  right. 
By  these  means  I  advanced  them  in  their  art. 
But  I  also  sought  to  raise  the  whole  class  in 
the  esteem  of  society  by  introducing  the  best 
and  most  promising  into  my  own  circle,  and 
thus  showing  to  the  world  that  I  considered 
them  worthy  of  social  intercourse  with  my- 
self. The  result  of  this  was  that  the  rest 
of  the  higher  society  in  Weimar  did  not  re- 
main behind  me,  and  that  actors  and  actresses 
gained  soon  an  honorable  admission  Into  the 
best  circles.  By  all  this  they  acquired  a  great 
personal  as  well  as  external  culture.  My 
40 


pupil  Wolff,  in  Berlin,  and  our  Diirand  are 
people  of  the  finest  tact  in  society.  Oels  and 
Graff  have  enough  of  the  higher  order  of 
culture  to  do  honor  to  the  best  circles. 

"Schiller  proceeded  in  the  same  spirit  as 
myself.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  intercourse 
with  actors  and  actresses.  He,  like  me,  was 
present  at  every  rehearsal;  and  after  every 
successful  performance  of  one  of  his  pieces, 
it  was  his  custom  to  invite  the  actors,  and  to 
spend  a  merry  day  with  them.  All  rejoiced 
together  at  that  which  had  succeeded,  and 
discust  how  anything  might  be  done  better 
next  time.  But  even  when  Schiller  joined 
us,  he  found  both  actors  and  the  public  al- 
ready cultivated  to  a  high  degree;  and  it  is 
not  to  be  denied  that  this  conduced  to  the 
rapid  success  of  his  pieces." 

It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  Goethe 
speak  so  circumstantially  upon  a  subject 
which  always  possest  great  interest  for  me, 
and  which,  in  consequence  of  the  misfortune 
of  the  previous  night,  was  uppermost  in  my 
mind. 

"This  burning  of  the  house,"  said  I,  "in 
which  you  and  Schiller,  during  a  long  course 
of  years,  effected  so  much  good,  in  some  de- 

41 


grce  closes  a  great  epoch,  which  will  not  soon 
return  for  Weimar.  You  must  at  that  time 
have  experienced  great  pleasure  in  your  direc- 
tion of  the  theater  and  its  extraordinary 
success." 

"And  not  a  little  trouble  and  difficulty," 
returned  Goethe  with  a  sigh. 

"It  must  be  difficult,"  said  I,  "to  keep  such 
a  many-headed  being  in  proper  order." 

"A  great  deal,"  said  Goethe,  "may  be  done 
by  severity,  more  by  love,  but  most  by  clear 
discernment  and  impartial  justice,  which  pays 
no  respect  to  persons. 

"I  had  to  beware  of  two  enemies,  which 
might  have  been  dangerous  to  me.  The  one 
was  my  passionate  love  of  talent,  which 
might  easily  have  made  me  partial.  The 
other  I  will  not  mention,  but  you  can  guess 
it.  At  our  theater  there  was  no  want  of 
ladies,  who  were  beautiful  and  young,  and 
who  were  possest  of  great  mental  charms.  I 
felt  a  passionate  inclination  towards  many 
of  them,  and  sometimes  it  happened  that  I 
was  met  half  way.  But  I  restrained  myself, 
and  said.  No  further!  I  knew  my  position, 
and  also  what  I  owed  to  it.  I  stood  here,  not 
as  a  private  man,  but  as  chief  of  an  establish- 

42 


merit,  the  prosperity  of  which  was  of  more 
consequence  to  me  than  a  momentary  gratifi- 
cation. If  I  had  involved  myself  in  any  love 
affair,  I  should  have  been  like  a  compass, 
which  cannot  possibly  point  right,  if  it  has  a 
powerful  magnet  beside  it." 

Sunday,  March  27th.  .  .  .  The  con- 
versation then  turned  upon  actors,  and  much 
was  said  about  the  use  and  abuse  of  their 
powers. 

"I  have,  during  my  long  practice,"  said 
Goethe,  "found  that  the  main  point  is  never 
to  allow  any  play,  or  scarcely  any  opera,  to  be 
prepared  for  representation  unless  one  can 
look  forward  with  some  certainty  to  a  good 
success  for  years.  No  one  sufficiently  con- 
siders the  expenditure  of  power,  which  is 
demanded  for  the  preparation  of  a  five-act 
play,  or  even  an  opera  of  equal  length.  Yes, 
my  good  friends,  much  is  required  before  a 
singer  has  thoroly  mastered  a  part  thru  all 
the  scenes  and  acts,  much  more  before  the 
choruses  go  as  they  ought. 

"And  then,  when  a  good  play  or  a  good 
opera  has  once  been  prepared  for  the  stage, 
it  should  be  represented  at  short  intervals — 

43 


be  allowed  to  run  as  lonj2;  as  it  draws,  and 
continues  at  all  to  lill  the  house.  The  same 
plan  would  be  applicable  to  a  good  old  play, 
or  a  good  old  opera,  which  has,  perhaps, 
been  long  laid  aside,  and  which  now  requires 
not  a  little  fresh  study  to  be  reproduced  with 
success.  Such  a  representation  should  be  re- 
peated at  short  intervals,  as  frequently  as 
the  public  shows  any  interest  in  it.  The  de- 
sire always  to  have  something  new,  and  to 
see  only  once,  or  at  the  most  twMce,  a  good 
play  or  opera,  which  has  been  studied  with 
excessive  pains,  or  even  to  allow  the  space 
of  six  or  eight  weeks  to  elapse  between  such 
repetitions,  in  w^hich  time  a  new  study  be- 
comes necessary — all  this  is  a  real  detriment 
to  the  theater,  and  an  unpardonable  misuse 
of  the  talents  of  the  performers  engaged  in 
it." 

Goethe  appeared  to  consider  this  matter 
very  important,  and  it  seemed  to  lie  so  near 
his  heart  that  he  became  more  excited  than, 
with  his  calm  disposition,  is  often  the  case. 

"In  Italy,"  continued  Goethe,  "they  per- 
form the  same  opera  every  evening  for  four 
or  six  weeks,  and  the  Italians — big  children 
— by  no  means  desire  any  change.     The  pol- 

44 


isht  Parisian  sees  the  classical  plays  of  his 
great  poets  so  often  that  he  knows  them  by 
heart,  and  has  a  practist  ear  for  the  ac- 
centuation of  every  syllable.  Here,  in  Wei- 
mar, they  have  done  me  the  honor  to  perform 
my  'Iphigenia'  and  my  'Tasso,'  but  how 
often?  Scarcely  once  in  three  or  four  years. 
The  public  finds  them  tedious.  Very  prob- 
ably. The  actors  are  not  in  practice  to  play 
the  pieces,  and  the  public  is  not  accustomed 
to  hear  them.  If,  thru  more  frequent  repe- 
titions, the  actors  entered  so  much  into  the 
spirit  of  their  parts  that  their  representation 
gained  life,  as  if  it  were  not  the  result  of 
study,  but  as  tho  everything  flowed  from 
their  own  hearts,  the  public  would,  assuredly, 
no  longer  remain  uninterested  and  unmoved. 
"I  really  had  the  illusion  once  upon  a  time 
that  it  was  possible  to  form  a  German  drama. 
Nay,  I  even  fancied  that  I  myself  could  con- 
tribute to  it,  and  lay  some  foundation-stones 
for  such  an  edifice.  I  wrote  my  'Iphigenia' 
and  my  'Tasso,'  and  thought,  with  a  childish 
hope,  that  thus  it  might  be  brought  about. 
But  there  was  no  emotion  or  excitement — 
all  remained  as  it  was  before.  If  I  had  pro- 
duced   an    effect,    and    met    with    applause, 

45 


I  would  have  written  a  round  dozen  of  such 
pieces  as  'Iphigenia'  and  'Tasso.'  There 
was  no  deficiency  of  material.  But,  as  I 
said,  actors  were  wanting  to  represent  such 
pieces  with  life  and  spirit,  and  a  public  was 
wanting  to  hear  and  receive  them  with  sym- 
pathy." 

Thursday,  April  14th.  This  evening  at 
Goethe's.  Since  conversations  upon  the  the- 
ater and  theatrical  management  were  now 
the  order  of  the  day,  I  askt  him  upon  what 
maxims  he  proceeded  in  the  choice  of  a  new 
member  of  the  company. 

"I  can  scarcely  say,"  returned  Goethe; 
"I  had  various  modes  of  proceeding.  If  a 
striking  reputation  preceded  the  new  actor,  I 
let  him  act,  and  saw  how  he  suited  the  others; 
whether  his  style  and  manner  disturbed  our 
ensemble,  or  whether  he  would  supply  a  de- 
ficiency. If,  however,  he  was  a  young  man 
who  had  never  trodden  a  stage  before,  I 
first  considered  his  personal  qualities; 
whether  he  had  about  him  anything  prepos- 
sessing or  attractive,  and,  above  all  things, 
whether  he  had  control  over  himself.  For 
an  actor  who  possesses  no  self-possession, 
and  who  cannot  appear  before  a  stranger  In 

46 


his  most  favorable  light,  has,  in  any  case, 
little  talent.  His  whole  profession  requires 
continual  self-concealment,  and  a  continual 
existence  in  a  foreign  mask. 

"If  his  appearance  and  his  deportment 
pleased  me,  I  made  him  read,  in  order  to  test 
the  power  and  extent  of  his  voice,  as  well 
as  the  capabilities  of  his  mind.  I  gave  him 
some  sublime  passage  from  a  great  poet,  to 
see  whether  he  was  capable  of  feeling  and 
expressing  what  was  really  great ;  then  some- 
thing passionate  and  wild,  to  prove  his 
power.  I  then  went  to  something  markt  by 
sense  and  smartness,  something  ironical  and 
witty,  to  see  how  he  treated  such  things,  and 
whether  he  possest  sufficient  versatility. 
Then  I  gave  him  something  in  which  was  rep- 
resented the  pain  of  a  wounded  heart,  the 
suffering  of  a  great  soul,  that  I  might  learn 
whether  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  express 
pathos. 

"If  he  satisfied  me  in  all  these  numerous 
particulars  I  had  a  well-grounded  hope  of 
making  him  a  very  important  actor.  If  he 
appeared  more  capable  in  some  particulars 
than  in  others,  I  remarkt  the  line  to  which 
he  was  most  adapted.     I  also  now  knew  his 

47 


weak,  points,  and,  above  all,  endeavored  to 
work  upon  him  so  that  he  might  strengthen 
and  cultivate  himself  here.  If  1  rcinarkt 
faults  of  dialect,  and  what  are  called  pro- 
vincialisms, 1  urged  him  to  lay  them  aside, 
and  recommended  to  him  social  intercourse 
and  friendly  practice  with  some  member  of 
the  stage  who  was  entirely  free  from  them. 
I  then  askt  him  whether  he  could  dance  and 
fence;  and  if  this  were  not  the  case,  I  would 
hand  him  over  for  some  time  to  the  danc- 
ing and  fencing  masters. 

"If  he  were  now  sufficiently  advanced  to 
make  his  appearance,  I  gave  him  at  first  such 
parts  as  suited  his  individuality,  and  I  de- 
sired nothing  but  that  he  should  represent 
himself.  If  he  now  appeared  to  me  of  too 
fiery  a  nature,  I  gave  him  phlegmatic  char- 
acters; if  too  calm  and  slow,  I  gave  him 
fiery  and  hasty  characters,  that  he  might  thus 
learn  to  lay  aside  himself  and  assume  a  for- 
eign individuality." 

The  conversation  turned  upon  the  casting 
of  plays,  upon  which  Goethe  made,  among 
others,  the  following  remarkable  observa- 
tions. 

"It  is  a  great  error  to  think,"  said  he,  "that 

48 


an  Indifferent  piece  may  be  played  by  indif- 
ferent actors.  A  second  or  third-rate  play 
can  be  incredibly  improved  by  the  employ- 
ment of  first-rate  powers,  and  be  made  some- 
thing really  good.  But  if  a  second  or  third- 
rate  play  be  performed  by  second  or  third- 
rate  actors,  no  one  can  wonder  if  it  is  utterly 
ineffective.  Second-rate  actors  are  excellent 
in  great  plays.  They  have  the  same  effect 
that  the  figures  in  half  shade  have  in  a  pic- 
ture; they  serve  admirably  to  show  off  more 
powerfully  those  which  have  the  full  light." 

Wednesday,  April  20th.  A  poet  who 
writes  for  the  stage  must  have  a  knowledge 
of  the  stage,  that  he  may  weigh  the  means 
at  his  command,  and  know  what  is  to  be  done, 
and  what  is  to  be  left  alone;  the  opera-com- 
poser, in  like  manner,  should  have  some  in- 
sight into  poetry,  that  he  may  know  how  to 
distinguish  the  bad  from  the  good,  and  not 
apply  his  art  to  something  impracticable. 

"Carl  Maria  von  Weber,"  said  Goethe, 
"should  not  have  composed  'Euryanthe.'  He 
should  have  seen  at  once  that  this  was  a  bad 
material,  of  which  nothing  could  be  made. 
So  much  insight  we  have  a  right  to  expect  of 
every  composer,  as  belonging  to  his  art." 

49 


Thus,  too,  the  painter  should  be  able  to 
distinguish  subjects;  for  it  belongs  to  his  de- 
partment to  know  what  he  has  to  paint,  and 
what  to  leave  unpainted. 

"But  when  all  is  said,"  observed  Goethe, 
"the  greatest  art  is  to  limit  and  isolate  one- 
self." 

Friday,  April  29th.  The  building  of  the 
new  theater  up  to  this  time  had  advanced 
very  rapidly;  the  foundation  walls  had  al- 
ready risen  on  every  side,  and  gave  promise 
of  a  very  beautiful  building. 

But  to-day,  on  going  to  the  site  of  the 
building,  I  saw,  to  my  horror,  that  the  work 
was  discontinued;  and  I  heard  it  reported 
that  another  party,  opposed  to  Goethe  and 
Cowdray's  plan,  had  at  last  triumphed;  that 
Cowdray  had  retired  from  the  direction  of 
the  building,  and  that  another  architect  was 
going  to  finish  it  after  a  new  design,  and 
alter  accordingly  the  foundation  already  laid. 

I  was  deeply  grieved  at  what  I  saw  and 
heard,  for  I  had  rejoiced,  with  many  others, 
at  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  theater  arise  in 
Weimar  executed  according  to  Goethe's 
practical  view  of  a  judicious  internal  arrange- 

50 


ment,  and,  as  far  as  beauty  was  concerned, 
in  accordance  with  his  cultivated  taste. 

But  I  also  grieved  for  Goethe  and  Cow- 
dray,  who  must  both,  more  or  less,  feel  hurt 
by  this  event. 

Sunday,  May  ist.  Dined  with  Goethe. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  the  alteration  in 
the  building  of  the  theater  was  the  first  sub- 
ject we  talkt  upon.  I  had,  as  I  said,  feared 
that  this  most  unexpected  measure  would 
deeply  wound  Goethe's  feelings;  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  it.  I  found  him  in  the  mild- 
est and  most  serene  frame  of  mind,  quite 
raised  above  all  sensitive  bitterness.    .    .    . 

"The  Grand  Duke,"  said  Goethe,  "dis- 
closed to  me  his  opinion  that  a  theater  need 
not  be  of  architectural  magnificence,  which 
could,  in  general,  not  be  contradicted.  He 
further  said  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  house 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  money.  This  view 
appears  at  first*  sight  rather  material;  but, 
rightly  considered,  it  is  not  without  a  higher 
purport.  For  if  a  theater  is  not  only  to  pay 
its  expenses,  but  is,  besides,  to  make  and  save 
money,  everything  about  it  must  be  excellent. 
It  must  have  the  best  management  at  its 
head;  the  actors  must  be  of  the  best;  and 

51 


good  pieces  must  continually  be  performed, 
that  the  attractive  power  required  to  draw 
a  full  house  every  evening  may  never  cease. 
But  that  is  saying  a  great  deal  in  a  few 
words — almost  what  is  impossible." 

"The  Grand  Duke's  view,"  said  I,  "of 
making  the  theater  gain  money  appears  to 
be  very  practical,  since  it  implies  a  neces- 
sity of  remaining  continually  on  a  summit 
of  excellence." 

"Even  Shakspere  and  Moliere,"  returned 
Goethe,  "had  no  other  view.  Both  of  them 
wisht,  above  all  things,  to  make  money  by 
their  theaters.  In  order  to  attain  this,  their 
principal  aim,  they  necessarily  strove  that 
everything  should  be  as  good  as  possible,  and 
that,  besides  good  old  plays,  there  should 
be  some  clever  novelty  to  please  and  attract. 
The  prohibition  of  'Tartuffe'  was  a  thunder- 
bolt to  Moliere;  but  not  so  much  for  the 
poet  as  for  the  director  Moliere,  who  had  to 
consider  the  welfare  of  an  important  troupe, 
and  to  find  some  means  to  procure  bread 
for  himself  and  his  actors. 

"Nothing,"  continued  Goethe,  "is  more 
dangerous  to  the  well-being  of  a  theater  than 
when  the  director  is  so  placed  that  a  greater 

52 


or  less  receipt  at  the  treasury  does  not  affect 
him  personally,  and  he  can  live  on  in  careless 
security,  knowing  that,  however  the  receipts 
at  the  treasury  may  fail  in  the  course  of  the 
year,  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  will  be  able 
to  indemnify  himself  from  another  source. 
It  is  a  property  of  human  nature  soon  to  re- 
lax when  not  impelled  by  personal  advantage 
or  disadvantage.  Now,  it  is  not  desirable 
that  a  theater,  in  such  a  town  as  Weimar, 
should  support  itself,  and  that  no  contribu- 
tion from  the  Prince's  treasury  should  be 
necessary.  But  still  everything  has  its 
bounds  and  limits,  and  a  thousand  thalers 
yearly,  more  or  less,  is  by  no  means  a  trifling 
matter,  particularly  as  diminisht  receipts  and 
deteriorations  are  dangers  natural  to  a  the- 
ater; so  that  there  is  a  loss  not  only  of  money, 
but  also  of  honor. 

"If  I  were  the  Grand  Duke,  I  would  in 
future,  on  any  change  in  the  management, 
once  for  all  appoint  a  fixt  sum  for  an  annual 
contribution.  I  would  strike  the  average  of 
the  contributions  during  the  last  ten  years, 
and  according  to  that  I  would  settle  a  sum 
sufficient  to  be  regarded  as  a  proper  support. 
With  this  sum  the  house  would  have  to  be 

53 


run.  But  then  I  would  go  a  step  further,  and 
say,  that  if  the  director  and  his  stage-mana- 
gers contrived,  by  means  of  judicious  and 
energetic  management,  to  have  an  overplus  in 
the  treasury  at  the  end  of  the  year,  this  over- 
plus should  be  shared,  as  a  remuneration,  be- 
tween the  director,  the  stage-managers,  and 
the  principal  members  of  the  company.  Then 
you  would  see  what  activity  there  would  be, 
and  how  the  establishment  would  awaken 
out  of  the  drowsiness  into  which  it  must 
gradually  fall. 

"Our  theatrical  laws,"  continued  Goethe, 
"contain  various  penalties;  but  there  is  no 
single  law  for  the  encouragement  and  re- 
ward of  distinguisht  merit.  This  is  a  great 
defect.  For  if,  with  every  failure,  I  have 
a  prospect  of  a  deduction  from  my  salary,  I 
should  also  have  the  prospect  of  a  reward, 
whenever  I  do  more  than  can  be  properly 
expected  of  me.  And  it  is  by  every  one's 
doing  more  than  can  be  hoped  or  expected 
of  him  that  a  theater  attains  excellence." 

We  walkt  up  and  down  the  garden,  en- 
joying the  fine  weather;  we  then  sat  upon  a 
bench  with  our  backs  against  the  young 
leaves  of  a  thick  hedge.     We  spoke  about 

54 


the  bow  of  Ulysses,  about  the  heroes  of 
Homer,  then  about  the  Greek  tragic  poets, 
and  lastly  about  the  widely  diffused  opinion 
that  Euripides  caused  the  decline  of  the 
Greek  drama.  Goethe  was  by  no  means 
of  this  opinion. 

"Altogether,"  said  he,  "I  am  opposed  to 
the  view  that  any  single  man  can  cause  the 
decline  of  an  art.  Much,  which  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  set  forth,  must  co-operate  to  this 
end.  The  decline  of  the  tragic  art  of  the 
Greeks  could  no  more  have  been  caused  by 
Euripides  than  could  that  of  sculpture  by 
any  great  sculptor  who  lived  in  the  time  of 
Phidias,  but  was  inferior  to  him.  For  when 
an  epoch  is  great,  it  proceeds  in  the  path  of 
improvement,  and  an  inferior  production  is 
without  results.  But  what  a  great  epoch 
was  the  time  of  Euripides  I  It  was  the  time, 
not  of  a  retrograde,  but  of  a  progressive 
taste.  Sculpture  had  not  yet  reached  its  high- 
est point,  and  painting  was  still  in  its  infancy. 

"If  the  pieces  of  Euripides,  compared  with 
those  of  Sophocles,  had  great  faults,  it  was 
not  necessary  that  succeeding  poets  should 
imitate  these  faults,  and  be  spoilt  by  them. 
But  if  they  had  great  merits,  so  that  some 

55 


of  them  were  even  preferable  to  plays  of 
Sophocles,  why  did  not  succeeding  poets 
strive  to  imitate  their  merits;  and  why  did 
they  not  thus  become  at  least  as  great  as 
Euripides  himself?  But  if  after  the  three 
celebrated  tragic  poets,  there  appeared  no 
equally  great  fourth,  fifth,  or  sixth — this  is, 
indeed,  a  matter  difficult  to  explain;  never- 
theless, we  may  have  our  own  conjectures, 
and  approach  the  truth  in  some  degree. 

"Man  is  a  simple  being.  And  however 
rich,  varied,  and  unfathomable  he  may  be, 
the  cycle  of  his  conditions  is  soon  run 
through. 

"If  the  same  circumstances  had  occurred, 
as  with  us  poor  Germans,  for  whom  Lessing 
has  written  two  or  three,  I  myself  three  or 
four,  and  Schiller  five  or  six  passable  plays, 
there  might  easily  have  been  room  for  a 
fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  tragic  poet. 

"But  with  the  Greeks  and  the  abundance 
of  their  productions — for  each  of  the  three 
great  poets  has  written  a  hundred  or  nearly 
a  hundred  pieces,  and  the  tragical  subjects  of 
Homer,  and  the  heroic  traditions,  were  some 
of  them  treated  three  or  four  times — with 
such  abundance  of  existing  works,  I  say,  one 

56 


can  well  imagine  that  by  degrees,  subjects 
were  exhausted,  and  that  any  poet  who 
followed  the  three  great  ones  would  be 
puzzled  how  to  proceed. 

"And,  indeed,  for  what  purpose  should  he 
write?  Was  there  not,  after  all,  enough  for 
a  time?  And  were  not  the  productions  of 
iEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides  of  that 
kind  and  of  that  depth  that  they  might  be 
heard  again  and  again  without  being  es- 
teemed trite  or  put  on  one  side?  Even  the 
few  noble  fragments  which  have  come  down 
to  us  are  so  comprehensive  and  of  such  deep 
significance  that  we  poor  Europeans  have  al- 
ready busied  ourselves  with  them  for  cen- 
turies, and  shall  find  nutriment  and  work  in 
them   for  centuries   still." 

Thursday,  May  12th.  Goethe  spoke  with 
much  enthusiasm  of  Menander.  "I  know  no 
one,  after  Sophocles,"  said  he,  "whom  I  love 
so  well.  He  is  thoroughly  pure,  noble,  great, 
and  cheerful,  and  his  grace  is  unattainable. 
It  is  certainly  to  be  lamented  that  we  possess 
so  little  of  him,  but  that  little  is  invaluable, 
and  highly  instructive  to  gifted  men. 

"The  great  point  is,  that  he  from  whom 
we  would  learn  should  be  congenial  to  our 

57 


nature.  Now,  Calderon,  for  instance,  great 
as  he  is,  and  much  as  I  admire  him,  has  ex- 
erted  no  influence  over  me  for  good  or  for 
ill.  But  he  would  have  been  dangerous  to 
Schiller — he  would  have  led  him  astray;  and 
hence  it  is  fortunate  that  Calderon  was  not 
generally  known  in  Germany  until  after 
Schiller's  death.  Calderon  is  infinitely  great 
in  the  technical  and  theatrical;  Schiller,  on 
the  contrary,  far  more  sound,  earnest,  and 
great  in  his  intentions,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  pity  if  he  had  lost  any  of  these  vir- 
tues, without,  after  all,  attaining  to  the  great- 
ness of  Calderon  in  other  respects." 

We  spoke  of  Moliere,  "Moliere,"  said 
Goethe,  "is  so  great,  that  one  is  astonisht 
anew  every  time  one  reads  him.  He  is  a 
man  by  himself — his  pieces  border  on  trag- 
edy; they  are  enthralling;  and  no  one  has 
the  courage  to  imitate  them.  His  'Avare,' 
where  vice  destroys  all  the  natural  piety  be- 
tween father  and  son,  is  especially  great,  and 
in  a  high  sense  tragic.  But  when,  in  a  Ger- 
man paraphrase,  the  son  is  changed  into  a 
relation,  the  whole  is  weakened,  and  loses  its 
significance.  They  feared  to  show  vice  in  its 
true  nature,   as  he  did;  but  what  is  tragic 

58 


there,  or  Indeed  anywhere,  except  what  Is 
Intolerable? 

"I  read  some  pieces  of  Mollere's  every 
year,  just  as,  from  time  to  time,  I  contem- 
plate the  engravings  after  the  great  Italian 
masters.  For  we  little  men  are  not  able  to 
retain  the  greatness  of  such  things  within 
ourselves;  we  must  therefore  return  to  them 
from  time  to  time  and  renew  our  impres- 
sions. 

"People  are  always  talking  about  orig- 
inality; but  what  do  they  mean?  As  soon  as 
we  are  born,  the  world  begins  to  work  upon 
us,  and  this  goes  on  to  the  end.  And,  after 
all,  what  can  we  call  our  own  except  energy, 
strength,  and  will?  If  I  could  give  an  ac- 
count of  all  that  I  owe  to  great  predecessors 
and  contemporaries,  there  would  be  but  a 
small  balance  in  my  favor." 

Sunday,  December  25th.  Goethe  then 
showed  me  a  very  important  English  work, 
which  Illustrated  all  Shakspere  in  copper 
plates.  Each  page  embraced,  in  six  small  de- 
signs, one  piece  with  some  verses  written  be- 
neath, so  that  the  leading  Idea  and  the  most 
important  situations  of  each  work  were 
brought  before  the  eyes.     All  these  Immortal 

59 


tragedies  and  comedies  thus  past  before 
the  mind  like  processions  of  masks. 

"It  is  even  terrifying,"  said  Goethe,  "to 
look  thru  these  little  pictures.  Thus  are  we 
first  made  to  feel  the  infinite  wealth  and 
grandeur  of  Shakspere.  There  is  no  motive 
in  human  life  which  he  has  not  exhibited  and 
exprest!  And  all  with  what  ease  and  free- 
dom !  But  we  cannot  talk  about  Shakspere ; 
everything  is  inadequate.  I  have  toucht 
upon  the  subject  in  my  'Wilhelm  Meister,' 
but  that  is  not  saying  much.  He  is  not  a  the- 
atrical poet;  he  never  thought  of  the  stage; 
it  was  far  too  narrow  for  his  great  mind: 
nay,  the  whole  visible  world  was  too  narrow. 
He  is  even  too  rich  and  too  powerful.  A 
productive  nature  ought  not  to  read  more 
than  one  of  his  dramas  in  a  year  if  it  would 
not  be  wrecked  entirely.  I  did  well  to  get 
rid  of  him  by  writing  "Gotz  von  Berlichin- 
gen'  and  'Egmont,'  and  Byron  did  well  by 
not  having  too  much  respect  for  him,  but 
going  his  own  way.  How  many  excellent 
Germans  have  been  ruined  by  him  and  Cal- 
deron ! 

"Shakspere  gives  us  golden  apples  in  silver 
dishes.    We  get,  indeed,  the  silver  dishes  by 

60 


studying  his  works;  but,  unfortunately,  we 
have  only  potatoes  to  put  into  them." 

I  laught,  and  was  delighted  with  this  ad- 
mirable simile. 

Goethe  then  read  me  a  letter  from  Zelter, 
describing  a  representation  of  'Macbeth'  at 
Berlin,  where  the  music  could  not  keep  pace 
with  the  grand  spirit  and  character  of  the 
piece,  as  Zelter  set  forth  by  various  intima- 
tions. By  Goethe's  reading,  the  letter  gained 
its  full  effect,  and  he  often  paused  to  admire 
with  me  the  point  of  some  single  passage. 

"  'Macbeth,'  said  Goethe,  "I  consider 
Shakspere's  best  acting  play,  the  one  in  which 
he  shows  most  understanding  with  respect 
to  the  stage.  But  would  you  see  his  mind 
unfettered,  read  'Troilus  and  Cressida,' 
where  he  treats  the  materials  of  the  'Iliad' 
in  his  own  fashion." 


6i 


i826 

Sunday,  January  29th. — The  conversation 
now  turned  upon  the  theater,  and  the  weak, 
sentimental,  gloomy  character  of  modern 
productions. 

"Moliere  is  my  strength  and  consolation 
at  present,"  said  I;  "I  have  translated  his 
'Avare,'  and  am  now  busy  with  his  'Medicin 
malgre  lui.'  Moliere  is  indeed  a  great,  a  real 
{reiner)  man." 

"Yes,"  said  Goethe,  "a  real  man;  that  is 
the  proper  term.  There  is  nothing  distort- 
ed about  him.  And  such  greatness  1  He 
ruled  the  manners  of  his  day,  while,  on  the 
contrary,  our  Iffland  and  Kotzebue  allowed 
themselves  to  be  ruled  by  theirs,  and  were 
limited  and  confined  in  them.  Moliere  chas- 
tised men  by  drawing  them  just  as  they 
were." 

"I  would  give  something,"  said  I,  "to  see 
his  plays  acted  in  all  their  purity!  Yet  such 
things  are  much  too  strong  and  natural  for 
the  public,  so  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  it. 

62 


Is  not  this  over-refinement  to  be  attributed 
to  the  so-called  ideal  literature  of  certain 
authors?"  ^ 

"No,"  said  Goethe,  "it  has  its  source  in 
society  itself.  What  business  have  our  young 
girls  at  the  theater?  They  do  not  belong  to 
it — they  belong  to  the  convent;  and  the 
theater  is  only  for  men  and  women,  who 
know  something  of  human  affairs.  When 
Moliere  wrote,  girls  were  in  the  convent,  and 
he  was  not  forced  to  think  about  them.  But 
since  we  cannot  get  rid  of  these  young  girls 
nowadays,  and  pieces  which  are  weak  and 
therefore  suited  to  girls  continue  to  be  pro- 
duced, be  wise  and  stay  away,  as  I  do.  I 
was  really  interested  in  the  theater  only  so 
long  as  I  could  have  a  practical  influence 
upon  it.  It  was  my  delight  to  bring  the  es- 
tablishment to  a  high  degree  of  perfection; 
and  when  there  was  a  performance,  my  in- 
terest was  not  so  much  in  the  pieces  as  in 
observing  whether  the  actors  played  as  they 
ought.  The  faults  I  wisht  to  point  out  I 
sent  in  writing  to  the  stage-manager,  and  was 
sure  they  would  be  avoided  on  the  next  rep- 
resentation. Now  that  I  can  no  longer  have 
any  practical  influence  in  the  theater  I  feel 

63 


no  call  to  enter  it;  I  should  be  forced  to 
endure  defects  without  being  able  to  amend 
them;  and  that  would  not  suit  me.  And  with 
the  reading  of  plays,  it  is  no  better.  The 
young  German  poets  are  eternally  sending 
me  tragedies;  but  what  am  I  to  do  with 
them?  I  have  never  read  German  plays  ex- 
cept with  the  view  of  seeing  whether  I  could 
have  them  acted;  in  every  other  respect  they 
were  indifferent  to  me.  What  am  I  to  do 
now,  in  my  present  situation,  with  the  pieces 
of  these  young  people?  I  can  gain  nothing 
for  myself  by  reading  how  things  ought  not 
to  be  done;  and  I  cannot  assist  the  young 
poets  in  a  matter  which  is  already  finisht. 
If,  instead  of  their  printed  plays,  they  would 
send  me  the  plan  of  a  play,  I  could  at  least 
say,  'Do  it,'  or  'Leave  it  alone,'  or  'Do  it 
this  way,'  or  'Do  it  that';  and  in  this  there 
might  be  some  use." 

Wednesday,  July  26th.  This  evening  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Goethe  say  a 
great  deal  about  the  theater. 

I  told  him  that  one  of  my  friends  intended 
to  arrange  Lord  Byron's  'Two  Foscari'  for 
the  stage.     Goethe  doubted  his  success. 

64 


"It  is  indeed  a  temptation,"  he  said. 
"When  a  piece  makes  a  deep  impression  on 
us  in  reading,  we  think  it  will  do  the  same 
on  the  stage,  and  that  we  could  obtain  such 
a  result  with  little  trouble.  But  this  is  by 
no  means  the  case.  A  piece  that  is  not  orig- 
inally, by  the  intent  and  skill  of  the  poet, 
written  for  the  boards  will  not  succeed;  but 
whatever  is  done  to  it  will  always  remain 
somewhat  unmanageable  and  unacceptable. 
What  trouble  have  I  taken  with  my  'Gotz 
von  Berlichingen !'  yet  it  will  not  go  right 
as  an  acting  play,  but  is  too  long;  and  I 
have  been  forced  to  divide  it  into  two  parts, 
of  which  the  last  is  indeed  theatrically  ef- 
fective, while  the  first  is  to  be  lookt  upon 
as  a  mere  introduction.  If  the  first  part 
were  given  only  once  as  an  introduction,  and 
then  the  second  repeatedly,  it  might  succeed. 
It  is  the  same  with  'Wallenstein' :  the  'Pic- 
colomlni'  does  not  bear  repetition,  but  *Wal- 
lenstein's  Death'  is  always  seen  with  delight." 

I  asked  how  a  piece  must  be  constructed 
so  as  to  be  fit  for  the  theater. 

"It  must  be  symbolical,"  replied  Goethe; 
"that  is  to  say,  each  incident  must  be  sig- 
nificant in  itself,  and  lead  to  another  still 

65 


more  important.  The  'Tartuffe'  of  Moliere 
is,  in  this  respect,  a  great  example.  Only 
think  what  an  exposition  the  first  scene  is! 
From  the  very  beginning  everything  is  high- 
ly significant,  and  leads  us  to  expect  some- 
thing still  more  important  which  is  to  come. 
The  exposition  of  Lessing's  'Minna  von 
Barnhelm'  is  also  admirable;  but  that  of  the 
'Tartuffe'  comes  only  once  into  the  world: 
it  is  the  greatest  and  best  thing  that  exists 
of  the  kind." 

We  then  came  to  the  pieces  of  Calderon. 

"In  Calderon,"  said  Goethe,  "you  find  the 
same  perfect  adaptation  to  the  theater.  His 
pieces  are  throughout  fit  for  the  boards; 
there  is  not  a  touch  in  them  which  is  not 
directed  towards  the  required  effect.  Cal- 
deron is  a  genius  who  had  also  the  finest 
understanding." 

"It  is  singular,"  said  I,  "that  the  dramas 
of  Shakspere  are  not  theatrical  pieces,  prop- 
erly so  called,  since  he  wrote  them  all  for 
his  theater." 

"Shakspere,"  replied  Goethe,  "wrote  those 
pieces  direct  from  his  own  nature.  Then, 
too,  his  age,  and  the  existing  arrangements 
of  the  stage,  made  no  demands  upon  him; 

66 


people  were  forced  to  put  up  with  whatever 
he  gave  them.  But  if  Shakspere  had  writ- 
ten for  the  court  of  Madrid,  or  for  the  the- 
ater of  Louis  XIV,  he  would  probably  have 
adapted  himself  to  a  severer  theatrical  form. 
This,  however,  is  by  no  means  to  be  re- 
gretted, for  what  Shakspere  has  lost  as  a  the- 
atrical poet  he  has  gained  as  a  poet  in  gen- 
eral. Shakspere  is  a  great  psychologist,  and 
we  learn  from  his  pieces  the  secrets  of  hu- 
man nature." 

We  then  talked  of  the  difficulties  in  man- 
aging a  theater. 

"The  difficulty  of  it,"  said  Goethe,  "is  so 
to  deal  with  contingencies  that  we  are  not 
tempted  to  deviate  from  our  higher  maxims. 
Among  the  higher  maxims  Is  this :  to  keep  a 
good  repertory  of  excellent  tragedies,  operas, 
and  comedies,  which  can  be  adhered  to,  and 
which  may  be  regarded  as  permanent. 
Among  contingencies,  I  reckon  a  new  piece 
about  which  the  public  is  anxious,  a  starring 
engagement,  and  so  forth.  We  must  not  be 
led  astray  by  things  of  this  kind,  but  always 
return  to  our  repertory.  Our  time  Is  so  rich 
In  really  good  pieces  that  nothing  Is  easier 
to  one  who  knows  how  than  to  forni  a  good 

67 


repertory;  but  nothing  is  more  difficult  than 
to  maintain  one. 

"When  Schiller  and  I  superintended  the 
theater,  we  had  the  great  advantage  of  play- 
ing through  the  summer  at  Lauchstedt. 
There  we  had  a  select  audience,  who  would 
have  nothing  but  what  was  excellent;  so  we 
always  returned  to  Weimar  thoroly  prac- 
tised in  the  best  plays,  and  could  repeat  all 
our  summer  performances  in  the  winter.  Be- 
sides, the  Weimar  public  had  confidence  in 
our  management,  and,  even  in  the  case  of 
things  they  could  not  appreciate,  they  were 
convinced  that  we  acted  in  accordance  with 
some  higher  view. 

"When  the  nineties  began,"  continued 
Goethe,  "the  proper  period  of  my  interest 
in  the  theater  was  already  past,  and  I  wrote 
nothing  for  the  stage,  but  wisht  to  devote 
myself  to  epic  poetry.  Schiller  revived  my 
extinct  interest,  and,  for  the  sake  of  his 
works,  I  again  took  part  in  the  theater.  At 
the  time  of  my  'Clavigo,'  I  could  easily  have 
written  a  dozen  theatrical  pieces.  I  had  no 
want  of  subjects,  and  production  was  easy 
to  me.  T  might  have  written  a  piece  every 
week,  and  I  am  sorry  I  did  not." 

68 


Wednesday,  November  8th.  To-day, 
Goethe  spoke  again  of  Lord  Byron  with  ad- 
miration. "I  have,"  said  he,  "read  once 
more  his  'Deformed  Transformed,'  and  must 
say  that  to  me  his  talent  appears  greater 
than  ever.  His  devil  was  suggested  by  my 
Mephistophiles;  but  it  is  no  imitation — it 
is  thoroly  new  and  original,  and  every- 
where compact,  genuine,  and  spirited.  There 
are  no  weak  passages — not  a  place  where 
you  could  put  the  head  of  a  pin,  where  you 
do  not  find  invention  and  thought.  Were  it 
not  for  his  hypochondriacal  negative  turn, 
he  would  be  as  great  as  Shakspere  and  the 
ancients." 

Wednesday,  December  20th.  The  Berlin 
papers  were  brought  in,  and  Goethe  sat  down 
to  read  them.  He  handed  one  of  them  to 
me,  and  I  found  in  the  theatrical  intelligence 
that  at  the  opera  house  and  the  theater  royal 
they  gave  just  as  bad  pieces  as  they  gave 
here.  "How  should  it  be  otherwise?"  said 
Goethe.  "There  is  no  doubt  that  with  the 
help  of  good  English,  French  and  Spanish 
pieces,  a  repertory  can  be  formed  sufficiently 
abundant  to  furnish  a  good  piece  every  eve- 
ning.    But  what  need  is  felt  by  the  nation  al- 

69 


ways  to  see  good  pieces?  The  time  in  which 
iEschylus,  Sophocles — and  Euripides  wrote 
was  different.  Then  there  was  mind  enough 
to  desire  only  what  was  really  greatest  and 
best.  But  in  our  miserable  times,  where  is 
felt  a  need  for  the  best?  Where  are  the  or- 
gans to  appreciate  it? 

"And  then,"  continued    Goethe,    "people 
wish  to  have  something  new.     In  Berlin  or 
Paris,  the  public  is  always  the  same.    A  quan- 
tity of  new  pieces  are  written  and  brought 
out  in  Paris,  and  you  must  endure  five  or  six 
thoroly  bad  ones  before  you  are  compensated 
by  a  single  good  one.     The  only  expedient 
to  keep  up  a  German  theater  at  the  present 
time  is  that  of  starring.     If  I  had  the  direc- 
tion  of   a   theater   now,   the   whole   winter 
should    be    provided    with    excellent    stars. 
Thus,  not  only  would  all  the  good  pieces  be 
repeated,   but  the   interest  of  the   audience 
would  be  led  more  from  the  pieces  to  the 
acting;  a  power  of  comparing  and  judging 
would  be  acquired;  the  public  would  gain  in 
penetration,  and  the  superior  acting  of  a  dis- 
tinguished star  would  maintain  our  own  ac- 
tors in  a  state  of  excitement  and  emulation. 
As  I  said  before,  keep  on  with  your  star- 

70 


ring,  and  you  will  be  astonisht  at  the  bene- 
fit that  will  accrue  both  to  the  theater  and 
the  public.  I  foresee  a  time  when  a  clever 
man,  who  understands  the  matter,  will  take 
four  theaters  at  once,  and  provide  them  with 
stars  by  turn.  And  I  am  sure  he  will  keep 
his  ground  better  with  these  four  than  if  he 
had  only  one." 


71 


1827 

Wednesday,  January  17th,  We  talkt  of 
Schiller's  'Fiesco,'  which  was  acted  last  Sat- 
urday. "I  saw  it  for  the  first  time,"  said  I, 
"and  have  been  much  occupied  with  thinking 
whether  those  extremely  rough  scenes  could 
not  be  softened;  but  I  find  very  little  could 
be  done  to  them  without  spoiling  the  char- 
acter of  the  whole." 

"You  are  right — it  cannot  be  done,"  re- 
plied Goethe.  "Schiller  often  talkt  with 
me  on  the  matter;  for  he  himself  could  not 
endure  his  first  plays,  and  would  never  allow 
them  to  be  acted  while  he  had  the  direction 
of  the  theater.  At  last  we  were  in  want  of 
pieces,  and  would  willingly  have  gained  those 
three  powerful  firstlings  for  our  repertory. 
But  we  found  it  impossible;  all  the  parts  were 
too  closely  interwoven  one  with  another;  so 
that  Schiller  himself  despaired  of  accomplish- 
ing the  plan,  and  found  himself  constrained 
to  give  it  up,  and  leave  the  pieces  just  as 
they  were." 

72 


"  'Tis  a  pity,"  said  I;  "for,  notwithstand- 
ing all  their  roughness,  I  love  them  a  thou- 
sand times  better  than  the  weak,  forced,  and 
unnatural  pieces  of  some  of  the  best  of  our 
later  tragic  poets.  A  grand  intellect  and 
character  is  felt  in  everything  of  Schiller's." 

"Yes,"  said  Goethe,  "Schiller  might  do 
what  he  would,  he  could  not  make  anything 
which  would  not  come  out  far  greater  than 
the  best  things  of  these  later  people.  Even 
when  he  cut  his  nails,  he  showed  he  was 
greater  than  these  gentlemen."  We  laught 
at  this  striking  metaphor. 

"But  I  have  known  persons,"  continued 
he,  "who  could  never  be  content  with  those 
first  dramas  of  Schiller.  One  summer,  at  a 
bathing  place,  I  was  walking  thru  a  very 
secluded,  narrow  path,  which  led  to  a  mill. 

There  Prince met  me,  and  as  at  the 

same  moment  some  mules  laden  with  meal- 
sacks  came  up  to  us  we  were  obliged  to  get 
out  of  the  way  and  enter  a  small  house. 
Here,  in  a  narrow  room,  we  fell,  after  the 
fashion  of  that  prince,  into  deep  discussion 
about  things  divine  and  human;  we  also  came 
to  Schiller's  'Robbers,'  when  the  prince  ex- 
prest  himself  thus :    'If  I  had  been  the  Deity 

73 


on  the  point  of  creating  the  world,  and  had 
foreseen,  at  the  moment,  that  Schiller's  'Rob- 
bers' would  have  been  written  in  it,  I  would 
have  left  the  world  uncreated.'  "  We  could 
not  help  laughing.  "What  do  you  say  to 
that?"  said  Goethe;  "that  is  a  dislike  which 
goes  pretty  far,  and  which  one  can  scarcely 
understand." 

"There  is  nothing  of  this  dislike,"  I  ob- 
served, "in  our  young  people,  especially  our 
students.  The  most  excellent  and  matured 
pieces  by  Schiller  and  others  may  be  per- 
formed, and  we  shall  see  but  few  young  peo- 
ple and  students  in  the  theater;  but  if  Schil- 
ler's 'Robbers'  or  Schiller's  'Fiesco'  is  given, 
the  house  is  almost  filled  by  students  alone." 

"So  it  was,"  said  Goethe,  "fifty  years  ago, 
and  so  it  will  probably  be  fifty  years  hence. 
What  a  young  man  has  written  is  always  best 
enjoyed  by  young  people.  Do  not  let  us 
imagine  that  the  world  will  so  much  advance 
in  culture  and  good  taste  that  young  people 
will  pass  over  the  ruder  epoch.  Even  if  the 
world  progresses  generally,  youth  will  al- 
ways begin  at  the  beginning,  and  the  epochs 
of  the  world's  accomplishment  will  be  repeat- 
ed in  the  individual.     This  has  ceased  to  ir- 

74 


ritate  me,  and  a  long  time  ago  I  made  a  verse 
In  this  fashion: 

Still  let  the  bonfire  blaze  away, 
Let  pleasure   never  know   decay; 
Old  brooms  to  stumps  are  always  worn, 
And  youngsters  every  day  are  born. 

Wednesday,  January  31st.  We  talkt  of 
Alexander  Manzoni;  and  Goethe  told  me 
that  Count  Reinhard,  not  long  since,  saw 
Manzoni  at  Paris,  where,  as  a  young  author 
of  celebrity,  he  had  been  well  received  in  so- 
ciety, and  that  he  was  now  living  happily  on 
his  estate,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Milan,  with 
a  young  family  and  his  mother. 

"Manzoni,"  continued  he,  "lacks  nothing 
except  to  know  what  a  good  poet  he  is,  and 
what  rights  belong  to  him  as  such.  He  has 
too  much  respect  for  history,  and  on  this 
account  is  always  adding  notes  to  his  pieces, 
in  which  he  shows  how  faithful  he  has  been 
to  detail.  Now,  tho  his  facts  may  be  his- 
torical his  characters  are  not  so,  any  more 
than  my  'Thoas'  and  'Iphigenla.'  No  poet  has 
ever  known  the  historical  characters  which 
he  has  painted;  If  he  had,  he  could  scarcely 
have  made  use  of  them.  The  poet  mus' 
know  what  effects  he  wishes  to  produce,  and 

75 


reg^iilate  the  nature  of  his  characters  accord- 
ingly. If  I  had  tried  to  make  Egmont  as 
history  represents  him,  the  father  of  a  dozen 
children,  his  light-minded  proceedings 
would  have  appeared  very  absurd.  I  needed 
an  Egmont  more  in  harmony  with  his  own 
actions  and  my  poetic  views;  and  this  is,  as 
Clarchen  says,  my  Egmont. 

"What  would  be  the  use  of  poets  if  they 
only  repeated  the  record  of  the  historian? 
The  poet  must  go  farther,  and  give  us,  if 
possible,  something  higher  and  better.  All 
the  characters  of  Sophocles  bear  something 
of  that  great  poet's  lofty  soul;  and  it  is  the 
same  with  the  characters  of  Shakspere.  This 
is  as  it  ought  to  be.  Nay,  Shakspere  goes 
farther,  and  makes  h*s  Romans  Englishmen; 
and  there,  too,  he  is  right;  for  otherwise  his 
nation  would  not  have  understood  him. 

"Here,  again,"  continued  Goethe,  "the 
Greeks  were  so  great  that  they  regarded 
fidelity  to  historic  facts  less  than  the  treat- 
ment of  them  by  the  poet.  We  have,  for- 
tunately, a  fine  example  in  Philoctetes,  which 
subject  has  been  treated  by  all  three  of  the 
great  tragedians,  and  last  and  best  by 
Sophocles." 

76 


Thursday,  February  ist.  Goethe  had  a 
volume  of  the  'Theory  of  Colors'  before 
him. 

I  read  as  far  as  those  interesting  para- 
graphs where  it  is  taught  that  the  eye  has 
need  of  change,  since  it  never  willingly  dwells 
on  the  same  color,  but  always  requires  an- 
other, and  that  so  urgently  that  it  produces 
colors  itself  if  it  does  not  actually  find  them. 

This  remark  led  our  conversation  to  a 
great  law  which  pervades  all  nature,  and  on 
which  all  life  and  all  the  joy  of  life  depend. 
"This,"  said  Goethe,  "is  the  case  not  only 
with  all  our  other  senses,  but  also  with  our 
higher  spiritual  nature;  and  it  is  because  the 
eye  is  so  eminent  a  sense,  that  this  'law  of 
required  change'  is  so  striking  and  so  espe- 
cially clear  with  respect  to  colors.  We  have 
dances  which  please  us  in  a  high  degree  on 
account  of  the  alteration  of  major  and  minor, 
while  dances  in  only  one  of  these  modes 
weary  us  at  once." 

"The  same  law,"  said  I,  "seems  to  lie  at 
the  foundation  of  a  good  style,  where  we 
like  to  avoid  a  sound  which  we  have  just 
heard.  Even  on  the  stage  a  great  deal  might 
be  done  with  this  law,  if  it  were  well  applied. 

77 


Plays,  especially  tragedies,  in  which  a  uni- 
lonn  tone  uninterrupted  by  change  prevails, 
have  always  something  wearisome  about 
them;  and  if  the  orchestra  plays  melancholy, 
depressing  music  during  the  intermissions  of 
a  melancholy  piece,  we  are  tortured  by  an 
insupportable  feeling,  which  we  would  escape 
by  all  possible  means." 

''Perhaps,"  said  Goethe,  "the  lively  scenes 
introduced  into  Shakspere's  tragedies  rest 
upon  this  'law  of  required  change,'  but  it  does 
not  seem  applicable  to  the  higher  tragedy 
of  the  Greeks,  where,  on  the  contrary,  a  cer- 
tain fundamental  tone  pervades  the  whole." 

"The  Greek  tragedy,"  said  I,  "is  not  of 
such  a  length  as  to  be  rendered  wearisome  by 
one  pervading  tone.  Then  there  is  an  inter- 
change of  chorus  and  dialog;  and  the  sublime 
spirit  is  of  such  a  kind  that  it  cannot  become 
fatiguing  since  a  certain  genuine  reality, 
which  is  always  of  a  cheerful  nature,  con- 
stantly underlies  it." 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  Goethe;  "and 
it  would  be  well  worth  the  trouble  to  inves- 
tigate how  far  the  Greek  tragedy  is  subject 
to  the  general  'law  of  required  change.'  You 
see  how  all  things  are  connected  with  each 

7S 


other,  and  how  a  law  respecting  the  theory 
of  colors  can  lead  to  an  Inquiry  into  Greek 
tragedy.  We  must  only  take  care  not  to  push 
such  a  law  too  far,  and  make  it  the  founda- 
tion for  much  besides.  We  shall  go  more 
safely  if  we  only  apply  it  by  analogy  as  an 
example." 

Wednesday,  February  7th.  To-day 
Goethe  spoke  severely  of  certain  critics  who 
were  not  satisfied  with  Lessing,  and  made 
unjust  demands  upon  him.  "When  people," 
said  he,  "compare  the  pieces  of  Lessing  with 
those  of  the  ancients,  and  call  them  paltry 
and  miserable,  what  is  one  to  say?  Rather 
let  us  pity  the  extraordinary  man  for  being 
obliged  to  live  in  a  pitiful  time,  which  af- 
forded him  no  better  materials  than  are  treat- 
ed in  his  pieces;  pity  him,  because  in  his 
Minna  von  Barnhelm,'  he  found  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do  than  to  occupy  himself  with  the 
squabbles  of  Saxony  and  Prussia.  His  con- 
stant political  turn,  too,  resulted  from  the 
badness  of  his  time.  In  'Emilia  Galotti,'  he 
vented  his  pique  against  princes;  In  'Nathan,' 
against  the  priests." 

Wednesday,  March  28th.  "When  we," 
continued  Goethe,  "for  our  modern  purposes, 

79 


wish  to  learn  how  to  conduct  ourselves  upon 
the  stage,  Moliere  Is  the  man  to  whom  we 
should  apply.  Do  you  know  his  'Malade 
Imaginaire'  ?  There  is  a  scene  in  it  which, 
as  often  as  I  read  the  piece,  appears  to  me 
the  symbol  of  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
boards.  1  mean  the  scene  where  the  'Malade 
Imaginaire'  asks  his  little  daughter  Louison 
if  there  has  not  been  a  young  man  in  the 
chamber  of  her  eldest  sister.  Now,  any 
other  who  did  not  understand  his  craft  so 
well  would  have  let  the  little  Louison  plainly 
tell  the  fact  at  once,  and  there  would  have 
been  the  end  of  the  matter. 

"But  what  various  motives  for  delay  are 
introduced  by  Moliere  into  this  examination, 
for  the  sake  of  life  and  effect  1  He  first 
makes  the  little  Louison  act  as  if  she  did 
not  understand  her  father;  then  she  denies 
that  she  knows  anything;  then,  threatened 
with  the  rod,  she  falls  down  as  if  dead;  then, 
when  her  father  bursts  out  in  despair,  she 
springs  up  from  her  feigned  swoon  with 
roguish  hilarity,  and  at  last,  little  by  little, 
she  confesses  all.  My  explanation  can  only 
give  you  a  very  meager  notion  of  the  ani- 
mation of  the  scene ;  but  read  this  scene  your- 

80 


self  till  you  become  thoroly  Imprest  with 
its  theatrical  worth,  and  you  will  confess  that 
there  is  more  practical  instruction  contained 
in  it  than  In  all  the  theories  in  the  world. 

"I  have  known  and  loved  Moliere,"  con- 
tinued Goethe,  "from  my  youth,  and  have 
learned  from  him  during  my  whole  life.  I 
never  fall  to  read  some  of  his  plays  every 
year,  that  I  may  keep  up  a  constant  inter- 
course with  what  is  excellent.  It  Is  not  mere- 
ly the  perfectly  artistic  treatment  which  de- 
lights me;  but  particularly  the  amiable  na- 
ture, the  highly  formed  mind,  of  the  poet. 
There  is  in  him  a  grace  and  a  feeling  for  the 
decorous,  and  a  tone  of  good  society,  which 
his  innate  beautiful  nature  could  only  attain 
by  dally  Intercourse  with  the  most  eminent 
men  of  his  age.  Of  Menander,  I  only  know 
the  few  fragments ;  but  these  give  me  so  high 
an  idea  of  him,  that  I  look  upon  this  great 
Greek  as  the  only  man  who  could  be  com- 
pared to  Moliere." 

"I  am  happy,"  returned  I,  "to  hear  you 
speak  so  highly  of  Moliere.  This  sounds  a 
little  different  from  Herr  von  Schlegel !  I 
have  to-day,  with  great  repugnance,  swal- 
lowed what  he  says  concerning  Moliere  in 

8i 


his  lectures  on  dramatic  poetry.  He  quite 
looks  down  upon  him  as  a  vulgar  buffoon 
who  has  only  seen  good  society  at  a  distance, 
and  whose  business  it  was  to  invent  all  sorts 
of  farces  for  the  amusement  of  his  lord.  In 
these  low  farces  Schlegel  admits  he  was  most 
happy,  but  thinks  he  stole  the  best  of  them, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  force  himself  into 
the  higher  school  of  comedy,  and  never  suc- 
ceeded in  it." 

"To  a  man  like  Schlegel,"  returned 
Goethe,  "a  genuine  nature  like  Moliere's  is 
a  veritable  thorn  in  the  eye;  he  feels  that  he 
has  nothing  in  common  with  him,  he  cannot 
endure  him.  The  'Misanthrope,'  which  I 
read  over  and  over  again,  as  one  of  my  most 
favorite  pieces,  is  repugnant  to  him;  he  is 
forced  to  praise  'Tartuffe'  a  little,  but  he 
lets  him  down  again  as  much  as  he  can. 
Schlegel  cannot  forgive  Moliere  for  ridicul- 
ing the  affectation  of  learned  ladies;  he  feels, 
probably,  as  one  of  my  friends  has  remarkt, 
that  he  himself  would  have  been  ridiculed  if 
he  had  lived  with  Moliere. 

"It  is  not  to  be  denied,"  continued  Goethe, 
"that  Schlegel  knows  a  great  deal,  and  one 
is  almost  terrified  at  his  extraordinary  at- 

82 


tainments  and  his  extensive  reading.  But  this 
is  not  enough.  All  the  learning  in  the  world 
is  still  no  judgment.  His  criticism  is  com- 
pletely one-sided,  because  in  all  theatrical 
pieces  he  merely  regards  the  skeleton  of  the 
plot  and  arrangement,  and  only  points  out 
small  points  of  resemblance  to  great  prede- 
cessors, without  troubling  himself  in  the  least 
as  to  what  the  author  brings  forward  of 
graceful  life  and  the  culture  of  a  noble  soul. 
But  of  what  use  are  all  the  arts  of  a  talent 
if  we  do  not  find  in  a  theatrical  piece  an 
amiable  or  great  personality  of  the  author? 
This  alone  influences  the  cultivation  of  the 
people.  I  look  upon  the  manner  in  which 
Schlegel  has  treated  the  French  drama  as  a 
sort  of  recipe  for  the  formation  of  a  bad 
critic,  who  is  wanting  in  every  organ  for  the 
veneration  of  excellence,  and  who  passes  over 
a  sound  nature  and  a  great  character  as  if 
they  were  chaff  and  stubble." 

"Shakspere  and  Calderon,  on  the  other 
hand,"  I  replied,  "he  treats  justly,  and  even 
with  decided  affection." 

"Both,"  returned  Goethe,  "are  of  such  a 
kind  that  one  cannot  say  enough  in  praise  of 
them,  altho  I  should  not  have  wondered  if 

83 


Schlegel  had  scornfully  depreciated  them 
also.  Thus  he  Is  also  just  to  /Eschylus  and 
Sophocles;  but  this  does  not  seem  to  arise  so 
much  from  a  lively  conviction  of  their  ex- 
traordinary merit  as  from  the  tradition 
among  philologists  to  place  them  both  very 
high;  for,  in  fact,  Schlegel's  own  little  person 
is  not  sufficient  to  comprehend  and  adequate- 
ly to  appreciate  such  lofty  natures.  If  this 
had  been  the  case,  he  would  have  been  just 
to  Euripides  too,  and  would  have  gone  to 
work  with  him  in  a  different  manner.  But  he 
knows  that  philologists  do  not  estimate  him 
very  highly,  and  he  therefore  feels  no  little 
delight  that  he  is  permitted,  upon  such  high 
authority,  to  fall  foul  of  this  mighty  ancient, 
and  to  schoolmaster  him  as  much  as  he  can. 
I  do  not  deny  that  Euripides  has  his  faults; 
but  he  was  always  a  very  respectable  com- 
petitor with  Sophocles  and  i^schylus.  If  he 
did  not  possess  the  great  earnestness  and  the 
severe  artistic  completeness  of  his  two  pred- 
ecessors, and  as  a  dramatic  poet  treated 
things  a  little  more  leniently  and  humanelv, 
he  probably  knew  his  Athenians  well  enough 
to  be  aware  that  the  chord  which  he  struck 
was  the  right  one  for  his  contemporaries. 
84 


A  poet  whom  Socrates  called  his  friend, 
whom  Aristotle  lauded,  whom  Menander 
admired,  and  for  whom  Sophocles  and  the 
city  of  Athens  put  on  mourning  on  hearing 
of  his  death,  must  certainly  have  amounted 
to  something.  If  a  modern  man  like  Schle- 
gel  must  pick  out  faults  in  so  great  an  an- 
cient, he  ought  only  to  do  it  upon  his  knees." 

Sunday,  April  ist.  In  the  evening  with 
Goethe.  I  converst  with  him  upon  the  yes- 
terday's performance  of  his  'Iphigenia,'  in 
which  Herr  Kriiger,  from  the  Theater  Royal 
at  Berlin,  played  Orestes  with  great  ap- 
plause. 

"The  piece,"  said  Goethe,  "has  its  diffi- 
culties. It  is  rich  in  internal  but  poor  in  ex- 
ternal life;  the  point  is  to  make  the  internal 
life  come  out.  It  is  full  of  the  most  ef- 
fective means,  arising  from  the  various  hor- 
rors which  form  the  foundation  of  the  piece. 
The  printed  words  are  indeed  only  a  faint 
reflex  of  the  life  which  stirred  within  me  dur- 
ing the  composition  of  the  piece,  but  the  ac- 
tor must  bring  us  back  to  this  first  fire  which 
animated  the  poet  with  respect  to  his  sub- 
ject. We  wish  to  see  the  vigorous  Greeks 
and  heroes,  with  the  fresh  sea-breezes  blow- 

85 


ing  upon  them,  who,  oppressed  and  torment- 
ed by  various  ills  and  dangers,  speak  out 
strongly  as  their  hearts  prompt  them.  But 
we  want  none  of  those  feeble,  sentimental 
actors  who  have  only  just  learned  their  part 
by  rote,  and  least  of  all  do  we  want  those 
who  are  not  even  perfect  in  their  parts. 

"I  must  confess  that  I  have  never  succeed- 
ed in  witnessing  a  perfect  representation  of 
my  'Iphigenia.'  That  was  the  reason  why  I 
did  not  go  yesterday;  for  I  suffer  dreadfully 
when  I  have  to  do  with  these  specters  who 
do  not  manifest  themselves  as  they 
ought."   .    .   . 

"An  actor,"  said  Goethe,  "should  prop- 
erly go  to  school  to  a  sculptor  and  a  painter; 
for,  in  order  to  represent  a  Greek  hero,  it 
is  necessary  for  him  to  study  carefully  the 
antique  sculptures  which  have  come  down  to 
us,  and  to  impress  on  his  mind  the  natural 
grace  of  their  sitting,  standing,  and  walking. 
But  the  merely  bodily  is  not  enough.  He 
must  also,  by  diligent  study  of  the  best  an- 
cient and  modern  authors,  give  a  great  culti- 
vation to  his  mind.  This  will  not  only  assist 
him  to  understand  his  part,  but  will  also  give 
a  higher  tone  to  his  whole  being  and  his 

86 


whole  deportment.  But  tell  me  more! 
What  else  did  you  see  good  in  him?" 

"It  appeared  to  me,"  said  I,  "that  he 
possest  great  love  for  his  subject.  He  had 
by  diligent  study  made  every  detail  clear  to 
himself,  so  that  he  lived  and  moved  in  his 
hero  with  great  freedom;  and  nothing  re- 
mained which  he  had  not  made  entirely  his 
own.  Thence  arose  a  just  expression  and  a 
just  accentuation  for  every  word,  together 
with  such  certainty,  that  the  prompter  was 
for  him  a  quite  superfluous  person." 

"I  am  pleased  with  this,"  said  Goethe; 
"this  is  as  it  ought  to  be.  Nothing  is  more 
dreadful  than  when  the  actors  are  not  mas- 
ters of  their  parts,  and  at  every  new  sen- 
tence must  listen  to  the  prompter.  By  this 
their  acting  becomes  a  mere  nullity,  without 
any  life  and  power.  When  the  actors  are 
not  perfect  in  their  parts  in  a  piece  like  my 
'Iphigenia,'  it  is  better  not  to  play  it;  for  the 
piece  can  have  success  only  when  all  goes 
surely,  rapidly,  and  with  animation.  How- 
ever, I  am  glad  that  it  went  off  so  well  with 
Kriiger.  Zelter  recommended  him  to  me, 
and  I  should  have  been  annoyed  if  he  had 
not  turned  out  so  well  as  he  has.    I  will  have 

87 


a  little  joke  with  him,  and  will  present  him 
witii  a  prettily  bound  copy  of  my  'Iphigenia,' 
with  some  verses  inscribed  in  reference  to 
his  acting." 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  the 
'Antigone'  of  Sophocles,  and  the  high  moral 
tone  prevailing  in  it;  and,  lastly,  upon  the 
question — how  the  moral  element  came  into 
the  world? 

"Thru  God  himself,"  returned  Goethe,  "like 
everything  else  which  is  good.  It  is  no  prod- 
uct of  human  reflection,  but  a  beautiful  nat- 
ural quality  inherent  and  inborn.  It  is,  more 
or  less,  inherent  in  mankind  generally,  but 
to  a  high  degree  in  a  few  eminently  gifted 
minds.  These  have,  by  great  deeds  or  doc- 
trines, manifested  their  divine  nature;  which, 
then,  by  the  beauty  of  its  appearance,  won 
the  love  of  men,  and  powerfully  attracted 
them  to  reverence  and  emulation." 

"A  consciousness  of  the  worth  of  the  mor- 
ally beautiful  and  good  could  be  attained  by 
experience  and  wisdom,  inasmuch  as  the  bad 
showed  itself  in  its  consequences  as  a  de- 
stroyer of  happiness,  both  in  individuals  and 
the  whole  body,  while  the  noble  and  right 
seemed  to  produce  and  secure  the  happiness 


of  one  and  all.  Thus  the  morally  beautiful 
could  become  a  doctrine,  and  diffuse  itself 
over  whole  nations  as  something  plainly  ex- 
prest." 

"I  have  lately  read  somewhere,"  an- 
swered I,  "the  opinion  that  the  Greek  trag- 
edy had  made  moral  beauty  a  special  object." 

"Not  so  much  morality,"  returned  Goethe, 
"as  pure  humanity  in  its  whole  extent;  espe- 
cially in  such  positions  where,  by  falling  into 
contact  with  rude  power,  it  could  assume  a 
tragic  character.  In  this  region,  indeed,  even 
the  moral  stood  as  a  principal  part  of  hu- 
man nature.  The  morality  of  Antigone,  be- 
sides, was  not  invented  by  Sophocles,  but  was 
contained  in  the  subject,  which  Sophocles 
chose  the  more  readily,  as  it  united  so  much 
dramatic  effect  with  moral  beauty." 

Goethe  then  spoke  about  the  characters  of 
Creon  and  Ismene,  and  on  the  necessity  of 
these  two  persons  for  the  development  of 
the  beautiful  soul  of  the  heroine. 

"All  that  is  noble,"  said  he,  "is  in  itself 
of  a  quiet  nature,  and  appears  to  sleep  until 
it  is  aroused  and  summoned  forth  by  con- 
trast. Such  a  contrast  is  Creon,  who  is 
brought  in,  partly  on  account  of  Antigone, 

89 


in  order  that  her  noble  nature  and  the  right 
which  is  on  her  side  may  be  brought  out  by 
him,  partly  on  his  own  account,  in  order  that 
his  unhappy  error  may  appear  odious  to  us. 

"But,  as  Sophocles  meant  to  display  the 
elevated  soul  of  his  heroine  even  before  the 
deed,  another  contrast  was  requisite  by  which 
her  character  might  be  developed;  and  this 
is  her  sister  Ismene.  In  this  character  the 
poet  has  given  us  a  beautiful  standard  of 
the  commonplace,  so  that  the  greatness  of 
Antigone,  which  is  far  above  such  a  standard, 
is  the  more  strikingly  visible." 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  dra- 
matic authors  in  general,  and  upon  the  im- 
portant influence  which  they  exerted,  and 
could  exert,  upon  the  great  mass  of  the 
people. 

"A  great  dramatic  poet,"  said  Goethe,  "if 
he  is  at  the  same  time  productive,  and  is 
actuated  by  a  strong,  noble  purpose,  which 
pervades  all  his  works,  may  succeed  in  mak- 
ing the  soul  of  his  pieces  become  the  soul  of 
the  people.  I  should  think  that  this  was 
something  well  worth  the  trouble.  From 
Corneille  proceeded  an  influence  capable  of 
forming  heroes.      This   was   something   for 

90 


Napoleon,  who  had  need  of  an  heroic  peo- 
ple; on  which  account,  he  said  of  Corneille 
that  if  he  were  still  living  he  would  make  a 
prince  of  him.  A  dramatic  poet  who  knows 
his  vocation  should  therefore  work  inces- 
santly at  its  higher  development,  in  order 
that  his  Influence  on  the  people  may  be  noble 
and  beneficial. 

"One  should  not  study  contemporaries  and 
competitors,  but  the  great  men  of  antiquity, 
whose  works  have,  for  centuries,  received 
equal  homage  and  consideration.  Indeed,  a 
man  of  really  superior  endowments  will  feel 
the  necessity  of  this,  and  it  Is  just  this  need 
for  an  intercourse  with  great  predecessors, 
which  Is  the  sign  of  a  higher  talent.  Let  us 
study  Moliere,  let  us  study  Shakspere,  but 
above  all  things,  the  old  Greeks,  and  always 
the  Greeks." 

Wednesday,  April  i8th.  At  dinner  we 
were  very  cheerful.   .    .    . 

"I  will  treat  you  to  something  good,  by 
way  of  dessert,"  said  Goethe.  With  these 
words  he  placed  before  me  a  landscape  by 
Rubens. 

"You  have,"  said  he,  "already  seen  this 
picture;  but  one  cannot  look  often  enough 

91 


at  anything  really  excellent; — besides,  there 
is  something  very  particular  attacht  to  this. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  you  see?" 

"I  begin  from  the  distance,"  said  I.  "I 
see  in  the  remotest  background  a  very  clear 
sky,  as  if  after  sunset.  Then,  still  in  the 
extreme  distance,  a  village  and  a  town,  in 
the  light  of  evening.  In  the  middle  of  the 
picture  there  is  a  road,  along  which  a  flock 
of  sheep  is  hastening  to  the  village.  At  the 
right  hand  of  the  picture  are  several  hay- 
stacks, and  a  wagon  which  appears  well 
laden,  *Unharnessed  horses  are  grazing 
near.  On  one  side,  among  the  bushes,  are 
several  mares  with  their  foals,  which  appear 
as  tho  they  were  going  to  remain  out  of 
doors  all  night.  Then,  nearer  to  the  fore- 
ground, there  is  a  group  of  large  trees;  and 
lastly,  quite  in  the  foreground  to  the  top, 
there  are  various  laborers  returning  home- 
wards." 

"But,"  continued  I  with  surprise,  "the  fig- 
ures cast  their  shadows  into  the  picture;  the 
group  of  trees,  on  the  contrary,  cast  theirs 

•Obviously,    as   Oxenford    notes,   the    proper   word   here, 
tho  the  text  has  'angeschirrt' — 'harnessed.' 

92 


towards  the  spectator.  We  thus  have  light 
from  different  sides,  which  is  contrary  to 
Nature." 

"That  is  the  point,"  returned  Goethe  with 
a  smile.  "It  is  by  this  that  Rubens  proves 
himself  great,  and  shows  to  the  world  that 
he,  with  a  free  spirit,  stands  above  Nature, 
and  treats  her  unfavorably  to  his  high  pur- 
poses. The  double  light  is  certainly  a  vio- 
lent expedient,  and  you  are  certainly  justi- 
fied in  saying  that  it  is  contrary  to  Nature. 
But  if  it  is  contrary  to  Nature,  I  still  say 
that  it  is  superior  to  Nature;  I  say  it  is  the 
bold  stroke  of  the  master,  by  which  he,  in  a 
genial  manner,  proclaims  to  the  world  that 
art  is  not  entirely  subject  to  natural  neces- 
sities, but  has  laws  of  its  own."   .    .    . 

"Are  there  not,"  said  I,  "bold  strokes  of 
artistic  fiction  similar  to  this  double  light  of 
Rubens  to  be  found  in  literature?" 

"We  need  not  go  far,"  said  Goethe,  after 
some  reflection;  "I  could  show  you  a  dozen 
of  them  in  Shakspere.  Only  take  'Macbeth.' 
When  the  lady  would  animate  her  husband 
to  the  deed,  she  says — 

I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me. 

93 


Whether  this  be  true  or  not  does  not  ap- 
pear; but  the  lady  says  it,  and  she  must  say 
it  in  order  to  give  emphasis  to  her  speech. 
But  in  the  course  of  the  piece,  when  Macduff 
hears  of  the  account  of  the  destruction  of 
his  family,  he  exclaims  in  wild  rage — 

He  hat  no  children! 

These  words  of  Macduff  contradict  those  of 
Lady  Macbeth;  but  this  does  not  trouble 
Shakspere.  The  grand  point  with  him  is  the 
force  of  each  speech;  and  as  the  lady,  in  or- 
der to  give  the  highest  emphasis  to  her  words, 
must  say  'I  have  given  suck,'  so,  for  the 
same  purpose,  Macduff  must  say  'he  has  no 
children.' 

"Generally,"  continued  Goethe,  "we  must 
not  judge  too  exactly  and  narrowly  of  the 
pencil  touches  of  a  painter,  or  the  words  of  a 
poet;  we  should  rather  contemplate  and 
enjoy  a  work  of  art  that  has  been  produced 
in  a  bold  and  free  spirit,  with  the  same  spirit, 
if  we  possibly  can.  Thus  it  would  be  foolish, 
if,  from  the  words  of  Macbeth — 

Bring   forth   men  children   only! 

the  conclusion  was  drawn  that  the  lady  was 
a  young  creature  who  had  not  yet  borne  any 

94 


children.  And  it  would  be  equally  foolish  if 
we  were  to  go  still  further,  and  say  that  the 
lady  must  be  represented  on  the  stage  as  a 
very  youthful  person. 

"Shakspere  by  no  means  makes  Macbeth 
say  these  words  to  show  the  youth  of  the 
lady;  but  these  words,  like  those  of  Lady 
Macbeth  and  Macduff,  which  I  quoted  just 
now,  are  merely  introduced  for  rhetorical 
purposes,  and  prove  nothing  more  than  that 
the  poet  always  makes  his  character  say  what- 
ever is  proper,  effective,  and  good  in  each 
particular  place,  without  troubling  himself  to 
calculate  whether  these  words  may,  perhaps, 
fall  into  apparent  contradiction  with  some 
other  passage. 

"Shakspere,  in  writing  his  pieces,  could 
hardly  have  thought  that  they  would  appear 
in  print,  so  as  to  be  told  over,  and  compared 
one  with  another;  he  had  rather  the  stage  in 
view  when  he  wrote;  he  regarded  his  plays 
as  a  lively  and  moving  scene,  that  would  pass 
rapidly  before  the  eyes  and  ears  upon  the 
stage,  not  as  one  that  was  to  be  held  firmly, 
and  carped  at  in  detail.  Hence,  his  only  point 

95 


was  to   be   effective   and   significant   for   the 
moment." 


96 


1829 

Wednesday,  February  4th.  "If  the 
Genasts  stay  here"  [said  Goethe],  "I  shall 
write  two  pieces  for  you,  both  in  one  act 
and  in  prose.  One  will  be  of  the  most  cheer- 
ful kind,  and  end  with  a  wedding;  the  other 
will  be  shocking  and  terrible,  and  two  corpses 
will  be  on  the  stage  at  the  end.  The  latter 
dates  from  Schiller's  time,  who  wrote  a  scene 
of  it  at  my  request.  I  have  long  thought 
over  both  these  subjects,  and  they  are  so 
completely  present  to  my  mind  that  I  could 
dictate  either  of  them  in  a  week,  as  I  did  my 
'Bijrgergeneral.'  "... 

"Do  so,"  said  I;  "write  the  two  pieces  at 
all  events;  it  will  be  a  recreation  to  you  after 
the  'Wanderjahre,'  and  will  operate  like  a 
little  journey.  And  how  pleased  the  world 
would  be,  if,  contrary  to  the  expectation  of 
every  one,  you  did  something  more  for  the 
stage." 

"As  I  said,"  continued  Goethe,  "if  the 
Genasts  stay  here,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall 

97 


not  Indulge  in  this  little  pleasantry.  But 
without  this  prospect  there  is  but  small  in- 
ducement; for  a  play  upon  paper  is  nought. 
The  poet  must  know  the  means  with  which 
he  has  to  work,  and  must  adapt  his  charac- 
ters to  the  actors  who  are  to  play  them.  If 
I  can  reckon  upon  Genast  and  his  wife,  and 
take  besides  La  Roche,  Herr  Winterberger, 
and  Madame  Seidel,  I  know  what  I  have  to 
do,  and  can  be  certain  that  my  intentions  will 
be  carried  out. 

"Writing  for  the  stage,"  he  continued,  "is 
an  art  by  itself,  and  he  who  does  not  under- 
stand it  thoroly  had  better  leave  it  alone. 
Every  one  thinks  that  an  interesting  fact  will 
appear  interesting  in  the  theater, — nothing 
of  the  kind !  Things  may  be  very  pretty  to 
read,  and  very  pretty  to  think  about;  but  as 
soon  as  they  are  put  upon  the  stage  the  effect 
is  quite  different,  and  what  has  charmed  us 
in  the  closet  will  probably  fall  flat  on  the 
boards.  When  one  reads  my  'Hermann  and 
Dorothea,'  he  thinks  it  might  be  brought  out 
at  the  theater.  Topfer  has  been  inveigled 
into  the  experiment;  but  what  is  it,  what 
effect  does  it  produce,  especially  if  it  is  not 
played  in  a  first-rate  manner,  and  who  can 

98 


say  that  it  is  in  every  respect  a  good  piece? 
Writing  for  the  stage  is  a  trade  that  one 
must  understand,  and  requires  a  talent  that 
one  must  possess.  Both  are  uncommon,  and 
where  they  are  not  combined,  we  shall 
scarcely  have  any  good  result." 

Thursday,  February  19th.  Dined  with 
Goethe  alone  In  his  study.  .  .  .  We 
talkt  a  great  deal  about  'Egmont,'  which 
had  been  represented,  according  to  Schiller's 
version,  on  the  preceding  evening,  and  the 
injury  done  to  the  piece  by  this  version  was 
brought  under  discussion. 

"For  many  reasons,"  said  I,  "the  Regent 
should  not  have  been  omitted;  on  the  con- 
trary, she  is  thoroly  necessary  to  the  piece. 
Not  only  does  this  princess  impart  to  the 
whole  a  higher,  nobler  character,  but  the  po- 
litical relations  especially  of  the  Spanish 
court  are  brought  much  more  clearly  in  view 
by  her  conversation  with  Machiavelli." 

"Unquestionably,"  said  Goethe.  "And  then 
Egmont  gains  in  dignity  from  the  luster 
which  the  partiality  of  this  princess  casts 
upon  him,  while  Clarchen  also  seems  exnited 
when  we  see  that,  vanquishing  even  prin- 
cesses,   she    alone    has    all    Egmont's    love. 

99 


These  are  very  delicate  effects,  which  cannot 
be  obliterated  without  compromising  the 
whole." 

"It  seems  to  me,  too,"  said  I,  "that  where 
there  are  so  many  Important  male  parts,  a 
single  female  personage  like  Clarchen  ap- 
pears too  weak  and  somewhat  overpowered. 
By  means  of  the  Regent  the  picture  is  better 
balanced.  It  Is  not  enough  that  the  Regent 
is  talked  of;  her  personal  entrance  makes 
the  impression." 

"You  judge  rightly,"  said  Goethe.  "When 
I  wrote  the  piece  I  well  weighed  everything, 
as  you  may  Imagine;  and  hence  It  is  no  won- 
der that  the  whole  materially  suffers,  when 
a  principal  figure  is  torn  out  of  It,  which  has 
been  conceived  for  the  sake  of  the  whole, 
and  thru  which  the  whole  exists.  But  Schil- 
ler had  something  violent  in  his  nature;  he 
often  acted  too  much  according  to  a  precon- 
ceived idea,  without  sufficient  regard  to  the 
subject  which  he  had  to  treat." 

"You  may  be  blamed  also,"  said  I,  "for 
allowing  the  alteration,  and  granting  him 
such  unlimited  liberty  in  so  important  a  mat- 
ter." 

lOO 


I 


"We  often  act  more  from  indifference  than 
kindness,"  replied  Goethe.  "Then,  at  that 
time,  I  was  deeply  occupied  with  other 
things.  I  had  no  interest  for  'Egmont'  or 
for  the  stage,  so  I  let  Schiller  have  his  own 
way.  Now  it  is,  at  any  rate,  a  consolation 
for  me  that  the  work  exists  in  print,  and  that 
there  are  theaters  where  people  are  wise 
enough  to  perform  it,  as  I  wrote  it,  without 
abbreviation." 


lOI 


iSjo 

Sunday,  February  14th. — We  .  .  spoke 
of  the  theater,  and  dramatic  poetry. 

"Gozzl,"  said  Goethe,  "would  maintain 
that  there  are  only  six-and-thirty  tragical 
situations.  Schiller  took  the  greatest  pains 
to  find  more,  but  he  did  not  find  even  so  many 

G*   n 
OZZl. 

Wednesday,  February  17th. — We  talked 
of  the  theater — of  the  color  of  the  scenes 
and  costumes.     The  result  was  as  follows : — 

Generally,  the  scenes  should  have  a  tone 
favorable  to  every  color  of  the  dresses,  like 
Beuther's  scenery,  which  has  more  or  less  of 
a  brownish  tinge,  and  brings  out  the  color 
of  the  dresses  with  perfect  freshness.  If, 
however,  the  scene-painter  is  obliged  to  de- 
part from  so  favorable  an  undecided  tone, 
and  to  represent  a  red  or  yellow  chamber,  a 
white  tent  or  a  green  garden,  the  actors 
should  be  clever  enough  to  avoid  similar 
colors  in  their  dresses.  If  an  actor  in  a  red 
uniform    and   green   breeches    enters    a    red 

102 


room,  the  upper  part  of  his  body  vanishes, 
and  only  his  legs  are  seen;  if,  with  the  same 
dress,  he  enters  a  green  garden,  his  legs 
vanish,  and  the  upper  part  of  his  body  is 
conspicuous.  Thus  I  saw  an  actor  in  a  white 
uniform  and  dark  breeches,  the  upper  part 
of  whose  body  completely  vanisht  in  a 
white  tent,  while  the  legs  disappeared  against 
a  dark  background. 

"Even,"  said  Goethe,  "when  the  scene- 
painter  is  obliged  to  have  a  red  or  yellow 
chamber,  or  a  green  garden  or  wood,  these 
colors  should  be  somewhat  faint  and  hazy, 
that  every  dress  in  the  foreground  may  be 
relieved  and  produce  the  proper  effect." 

Wednesday,  March  17th. — This  evening 
at  Goethe's  for  a  couple  of  hours.  By  order 
of  the  Grand  Duchess  I  brought  him  back 
"Gemma  von  Art,"  and  told  him  the  good 
opinion  I  entertained  of  this  piece. 

"I  am  always  glad,"  returned  he,  "when 
anything  Is  produced  which  is  new  in  inven- 
tion and  bears  the  stamp  of  talent."  Then 
taking  the  volume  between  his  hands,  and 
looking  at  It  somewhat  askance,  he  added, 
"but  I  am  never  quite  pleased  when  I  see  a 
dramatic  author  make  pieces  too  long  to  be 

103 


represented  as  they  are  written.  This  im- 
perfection takes  away  half  the  pleasure  that 
I  should  otherwise  feel.  Only  see  what  a 
thick  volume  this  'Gemma  von  Art'  is." 

"Schiller,"  returned  I,  "has  not  managed 
much  better,  and  yet  he  is  a  very  great  dra- 
matic author." 

"He  too  has  certainly  committed  this 
fault,"  returned  Goethe.  "His  first  pieces 
particularly,  which  he  wrote  in  the  fullness 
of  youth,  seem  as  if  they  would  never  end. 
He  had  too  much  on  his  mind,  and  too  much 
to  say  to  be  able  to  control  it.  Afterwards, 
when  he  became  conscious  of  this  fault,  he 
took  infinite  trouble,  and  endeavored  to  over- 
come it  by  work  and  study;  but  he  never  per- 
fectly succeeded.  It  really  requires  a  poeti- 
cal giant,  and  is  more  diflficult  than  is  imag- 
ined, to  control  a  subject  properly,  to  keep 
it  from  overpowering  one,  and  to  concen- 
trate one's  attention  on  that  alone  which  is 
absolutely  necessary." 


104 


I83I 

Tuesday,  February  15th.  Dined  with 
Goethe.  I  told  him  about  the  theater;  he 
praised  the  piece  given  yesterday — 'Henry 
III,'  by  Dumas — as  very  excellent,  but  nat- 
urally found  that  such  a  dish  would  not  suit 
the  public. 

"I  should  not,"  said  he,  "have  ventured 
to  give  it,  when  I  was  director;  for  I  remem- 
ber well  what  trouble  we  had  to  smuggle 
upon  the  public  the  'Constant  Prince,'  which 
has  far  more  general  human  interest,  is  more 
poetic,  and  in  fact  lies  much  nearer  to  us, 
than  'Henry  III.'  " 

I  spoke  of  the  'Grand  Cophta,'  which  I 
had  been  lately  reperusing.  I  talked  over 
the  scenes  one  by  one,  and,  at  last,  exprest 
a  wish  to  see  it  once  on  the  stage. 

"I  am  pleased,"  said  Goethe,  "that  yo. 
like  that  piece,  and  find  out  what  I  have 
worked  into  it.  It  was  indeed  no  little  labor 
to  make  an  entirely  real  fact  first  poetical, 
and  then  theatrical.     And  yet  you  will  grant 

105 


that  the  wht)lc  is  properly  conceived  for  the 
stage.  Schiller  was,  also,  very  partial  to  it; 
and  we  gave  it  once,  with  brilliant  effect,  for 
the  higher  order  of  persons.  But  it  is  not 
for  the  public  in  general;  the  crimes  of  which 
it  treats  have  about  them  an  enthraUing 
character,  which  produces  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  in  the  people.  Its  bold  character 
places  it,  indeed,  in  the  sphere  of  'Clara 
Gazul';  and  the  French  poet  might  really 
envy  me  for  taking  from  him  so  good  a  sub- 
ject. I  say  so  good  a  subject^  because  it  is  in 
truth  not  merely  of  moral,  but  also  of  great 
historical  significance;  the  fact  immediately 
preceded  the  French  Revolution,  and  was,  to 
a  certain  extent,  its  foundation.  The  Queen, 
through  being  implicated  in  that  unlucky 
story  of  the  necklace,  lost  her  dignity,  and 
was  no  longer  respected,  so  that  she  lost, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  the  ground  where 
she  was  unassailable.  Hate  injures  no  one; 
it  is  contempt  that  casts  men  down.  Kotze- 
bue  had  been  hated  long;  but  before  the 
student  dared  to  use  his  dagger  upon  him 
it  was  necessary  for  certain  journals  to  make 
him  contemptible." 

1 06 


Thursday,  December  ist.  We  then 
spoke  of  Victor  Hugo,  remarking  that  his 
too  great  fertility  had  been  highly  prejudi- 
cial to  his  talent. 

"How  can  a  writer  help  growing  worse, 
and  destroying  the  finest  talent  in  the  world," 
said  Goethe,  "if  he  has  the  audacity  to  write 
in  a  single  year  two  tragedies  and  a  novel; 
and,  further,  when  he  only  appears  to  work 
in  order  to  scrape  together  immense  sums 
of  money?  I  do  not  blame  him  for  trying  tQ 
become  rich,  and  to  earn  present  renown; 
but  if  he  intends  to  live  long  in  futurity,  he 
must  begin  to  write  less  and  to  work  more." 

Goethe  then  went  thru  'Marie  de  Lorme,' 
and  endeavored  to  make  it  clear  to  me 
that  the  subject  only  contained  sufficient 
material  to  make  one  single  good  and  really 
tragical  act;  but  that  the  author  had  allowed 
himself,  by  considerations  of  quite  a  second- 
ary nature,  to  be  misled  into  stretching  out 
his  subject  to  five  long  acts.  "Under  these 
circumstances,"  said  Goethe,  "we  have 
merely  the  advantage  of  seeing  that  the  poet 
is  great  in  the  representation  of  details, 
which  certainly  is  something,  and  indeed  no 
trifle." 

107 


1832 

March  (no  date).  We  talkt  of  the 
tragic  idea  of  Destiny  among  the  Greeks. 

"It  no  longer  suits  our  way  of  thinking," 
said  Goethe,  "it  is  obsolete,  and  is  also  in 
contradiction  with  our  religious  views.  If  a 
modern  poet  introduces  such  antique  ideas 
into  a  drama,  it  always  has  an  air  of  affec- 
tation. It  is  a  costume  which  is  long  since 
out  of  fashion,  and  which,  like  the  Roman 
toga,  no  longer  suits  us. 

"It  is  better  for  us  moderns  to  say  with 
the  poet,  'Politics  is  Destiny.'  But  let  us 
beware  of  saying,  with  our  latest  literati, 
that  politics  is  poetry,  or  a  good  subject  for 
the  poet.  The  English  poet  Thomson  wrote 
a  very  good  poem  on  the  seasons,  but  a  very 
bad  one  on  liberty,  and  that  not  from  want 
of  poetry  in  the  poet,  but  from  want  of 
poetry  in  the  subject. 

"If  a  poet  would  work  politically,  he  must 
give  himself  up  to  a  party;  as  soon  as  he 
does  that,  he  is  lost  as  a  poet;  he  must  bid 

108 


farewell  to  his  free  spirit,  his  unbiased  view, 
and  draw  over  his  ears  the  cap  of  bigotry 
and  blind  hatred. 

"The  poet,  as  a  man  and  a  citizen,  will 
love  his  native  land;  but  the  native  land  of 
his  poetic  powers  is  the  good,  the  noble,  the 
beautiful,  which  is  confined  to  no  particular 
province  or  country,  and  which  he  seizes 
upon  and  forms  wherever  he  finds  it.  Therein 
is  he  like  the  eagle,  who  hovers  with  free 
gaze  over  whole  countries,  and  to  whom  it  is 
of  no  consequence  whether  the  hare  on  which 
he  pounces  is  running  in  Prussia  or  Saxony. 

"And  then,  what  is  meant  by  love  of  one's 
country?  What  is  meant  by  patriotic  deeds? 
If  the  poet  has  employed  a  life  in  battling 
with  pernicious  prejudices,  in  setting  aside 
narrow  views,  in  enlightening  the  minds, 
purifying  the  tastes,  ennobling  the  feelings 
and  thoughts  of  his  countrymen,  what  better 
could  he  have  done?  How  could  he  have 
acted  more  patriotically?" 

\^This  is  the  last  conversation  recorded  by 
Eckermann.  Goethe  died  on  March  22, 
1832.] 


109 


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